


Out in the Open

by Melinda Y (HowNovel)



Series: Starman Trilogy [3]
Category: Starman (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1991-03-25
Updated: 1991-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 160,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowNovel/pseuds/Melinda%20Y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 3 (in 2 chapters) of the Starman Trilogy: How the Starman story might end.</p><p>Thanks to   Mark Shermin, who meant well but messed up, Starman and Scott are exposed.   The tabloids have a field day, as expected. Forced to live away from his father, Scott makes quantum leaps in his extraterrestrial powers. Starman and Scott each have to avert one potential disaster after another as they<br/>try to find a way to get back together and lead a normal family life</p><p>"It was a full page ad in <i>The Seattle Tribune</i> that was an open letter to the press. It read, 'We resent in the strongest terms the intrusion into our privacy and into the privacy of our friend, Scott Hayden...The fact that certain publications...would jeopardize the life of our friend is abhorrent.' It was signed with several hundred names, including the families of Scott's friends, all of Scott's teachers through the years, and countless others Scott knew from his life in Seattle."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

OUT IN THE OPEN

 

Paul and Scott stood in line at a busy post office in Vancouver, Washington on the day after Christmas. Tucked under Scott’s arm was a plainly-wrapped package of Swiss chocolates for Kurt and Irmtraud Keitzer, a signal for the old couple that the two of them had safely eluded George Fox. Inside the box was the money Evan Pierce had given Scott as he had helped him escape, almost literally from under George Fox’s nose, on Christmas Eve. Happy to be together again after a difficult two months apart, the father and son didn’t mind the wait at the end of the long line.

As their turn finally came, they stepped forward to the station of an overworked woman who was trying to stay cheerful despite the post-holiday crush. “Sending a late Christmas package, huh?” she said, trying to lighten the situation.

“No,” Paul said, “just sending a package.”

She was disappointed that Paul hadn’t come up with a snappy response, but she dutifully took the package as the father and son decided the package deserved first class treatment. She took their money and applied the postage sticker, then noticed an omission on the package’s plain wrapper. “You forgot your return address.” She handed Paul a pen.

Paul thought for a moment, then said, “What’s the address here?”

She mistook his simple response for a wisecrack and the last of her holiday spirit vanished from her face. “Excuse me?”

Scott came to the rescue. “Sorry,” he said with a casual air. “We’re in the process of moving, and he keeps forgetting the new address.” He took the pen and wrote: “Scott, 1134 Wood Creek Road, Seattle, Washington, 98195.” The woman accepted Scott’s explanation and nodded as he finished writing. The two wished the woman a Merry Christmas and went outside.

“What was that address?” Paul asked.

“Oh, it’s where I lived with the Lockharts. It doesn’t matter.”

Paul nodded, then looked around at the busy street, an idea brewing. “Where do we go now?”

“We have to call Liz and get her to wire us that money she’s got for you,” Scott said. “There’s a pay phone across the street.”

“Then where do we go?”

Scott looked at his father with a playful smile. “The Caribbean?”

Paul smiled. “I don’t think so. But school won’t start for a week or two, so after we get our money we can go someplace for a while. What sounds good to you?”

Scott thought, then smiled again. “The Caribbean still sounds good.”

“How about 1134 Wood Creek Road, Seattle, Washington?”

This caught Scott by surprise. “Home?” Paul looked at him evenly. “But, nobody lives there now. I mean, nobody I know.”

“I think it might be good to see where you grew up.” Paul smiled slightly. “You could show me all your favorite places.”

The idea was beginning to appeal to Scott, but he still was unsure. “But what if someone I know sees me?”

“People see you every day.”

“But, I mean, people know me there. What if something ... happens?”

“We can stay out of the way. I’d like to see where you grew up. But if you don’t want me to ...”

“No, no, that’s not it.” The prospect of being back in the place where he had been “normal” seemed strangely daunting, and yet at the same time it was wonderfully appealing. He nodded. “... Okay.”

Paul smiled and patted his son on the back. “Let’s call Liz.”

Paul called Liz at home—this was standard practice, as her home phone was much more private than the phone lines at her magazine’s offices—and she agreed to wire immediately the money Paul had earned for his photo assignment for _The Light of the Plains_. She also had some mail for him, and he asked her to send it to them care of general delivery in Seattle. Things were going well with Liz, as two of her stories had won awards and she was now a contributing editor. “Believe, me,” she said, “it sounds a lot grander than it is. I’m still a reporter, I don’t get to make many decisions, and I have to work even longer hours for almost the same pay.” How-ever, Paul knew she was happy about the promotion, despite her protestations. He congratulated her and asked her to keep him in mind if she needed a good photographer.

After Paul and Scott received the wired money, they bought a sensible used car and headed north. By that afternoon, Scott was picking out familiar landmarks as they reached the outskirts of the city he had called home for most of his life. The two years he and his father had been on the run faded away as memories rushed up to greet him as an old friend.

By dinnertime, they had found a room in an inexpensive motel across town from Scott’s old neighborhood, and the next morning they went out to see the sights. They explored downtown the first day, Scott always being careful to steer clear of anyone his own age “just to be safe.” Paul accepted Scott’s precautions with only a nod and a slight smile, concentrating more on the city than on his son’s exaggerated cloak-and-dagger attitude.

The next day Scott got up the nerve to visit his old haunts, and after a while he loosened up and began to enjoy himself as he gave Paul the tour of his past. 

First there was the patch of woods where he and his gang—Tim Kilpatrick, Scott “Sandy” Sanderman, Billy Lin and Mike Greenwald—used to camp, play Indians, fish in the small creek and generally get into mischief. It had not changed much, although it seemed so much smaller now. Then there was the neighborhood where he had lived with the Lockharts. Paul parked the car across the street from 1134 Wood Creek Road, but they did not get out. The house was occupied by a family with several small children, as evidenced by the tricycle, bicycle, and scattered toys in the front yard. Scott pointed out the window of what had been his bedroom. Lacy curtains indicated a different gender for the current occupant. Scott was pleased to see the place was well-kept and that his old swing set was still in the back yard. “That’s where I broke my arm,” he said fondly. Paul wondered why this should make his son smile. “We were having a contest to see who could jump out of the swing the farthest.” He beamed. “I set the all-time neighborhood record.”

They drove through the quiet neighborhood where the flower shop Kent Lockhart owned had been. A dry cleaning shop was there now, and they did not stop.

The next two places on the tour were Scott’s grade school and middle school. The school yards were deserted during the school break, and Scott marveled at how small the playground equipment had become in his absence.

Then they stopped at the high school where Scott would now be a student if the Lockharts had not died. As they walked through the school grounds, Scott became thoughtful at the sight of the high school building, dark and imposing in the cold, overcast winter light. He dug his hands into the pockets of the letter jacket Tom had given him and frowned at the building. “I almost went here. But the accident happened about three weeks before school started. I was put in Leland Hall and they transferred me to a school in the city.”

Paul looked at the building and sighed in sympathy. “It looks like a good place. I’m sorry you couldn’t stay here.”

Scott shrugged. “That’s okay. It would’ve been nice, but being normal isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.” He smiled slyly at his father, and they continued on their walk through the grounds together. “It’s weird to look at this place and think that on a school day I could find lots of people who know me. Well, used to know me. I know I’ve really changed. I wonder if I’d recognize anybody? Or if anybody would recognize me?”

Paul thoughtfully put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “You’ve grown up a lot. But it seems that friends recognize each other, even when you don’t see them for a long time. Maybe you’ll find them again someday.”

Scott smiled. “I’d like that.” He looked at his watch. “We better go if we’re going to get to the post office before it closes.” They returned to the car and drove toward the heart of the city.

******

Paul waited in line at the main downtown post office while Scott looked over the wanted posters to see if he recognized anyone. The only felons he knew weren’t up there, which made him feel good. He was about to turn and go find his father in line when a voice caught him from behind. “... Scott?”

Scott froze, not daring to look around. He looked at the exit, wondering if he could sprint out without creating too much of a scene. Then the voice was right beside him.

“Scott? It is you!”

Scott turned to look, then all of his preoccupation with not being recognized disappeared as he broke out in a laugh. “Billy!”

The two old friends laughed and hugged each other with joy. “Where you been, round eye?” Billy Lin said, grinning ear to ear.

“What are you doing downtown?” Scott asked.

“I’m helping out at my uncle’s store during break. I had to mail some packages on my way home. But what are you doing here? Man, have I missed you.” He admired Scott’s letter jacket. “I see you’ve been doing pretty well for yourself.”

Scott shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve been doing okay.” Paul emerged from behind the people standing in line and Scott signaled him over. “Dad! This is Billy Lin! I was telling you about him. He’s my best friend.”

Paul joined them. “It’s nice to meet you, Billy.”

Billy was squinting at Paul, then glanced skeptically at Scott. “Dad? I thought your dad was dead.”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged innocently. “Hey, I always told you I was special.”

Billy frowned pointedly. “Yeah, and you used to tell me you were really the long-lost heir of the earls of Robin Hood.”

Scott tried to laugh it off. “Well, you used to say you were descended from the emperors of China.”

“We are. They overthrew the dynasty before they got around to us. At least that’s what Grandfather says.” His face lit up. “Hey, can you come over for dinner tonight? Mom would really be glad to see you.”

Scott looked at his father eagerly. “Is it okay with you?”

Paul decided not to tease Scott about abandoning his well-guarded anonymity. “If you think it’s okay, I don’t see why not.”

“All right!” the boys shouted in unison.

******

Mrs. Carol Lin was as skeptical as her son when Scott introduced Paul as his father, then Scott backpedaled and explained that Paul was someone who knew his mother after his father died. At her first opportunity, she got Scott alone in the kitchen and asked him if he was okay, _really_ okay. Scott recognized the cause for her concern and explained everything was all right. He hesitated for a moment, then told her Paul was his real father and Scott Hayden wasn’t. She asked how he knew, and he explained about the audiotape from his mother. It was the first time he had told the truth to anyone who had known him, and it felt good, deep inside. She questioned him further, and she soon realized he was fine. She apologized for her concern, saying, “We were really worried about you when you disappeared and we never heard from you.” She smiled apologetically. “Sometimes it’s hard not to be a mom all the time.”

For dinner, Mrs. Lin threw together a stir-fry feast that would have made most chefs green with envy. She wanted to hear all about Scott and what he had been doing, and she surprised him when she said she had shown up at Leland Hall the day after he left with all the necessary paperwork to take him in as a foster child.

“Really?” Scott was astonished. “You really did that?”

“Sure,” she said modestly. “You were a good kid in a bad situation, and don’t tell the others I said this, but you’re my favorite of all Billy’s friends.”

“Yeah,” Billy said as he started on his third helping, “she had to go around to all the relatives to get up the money. Even Uncle Fan Shuh chipped in, the old tightwad.”

“You’re kidding!” Scott exclaimed.

“Billy!” Mrs. Lin scolded.

“Oh, come on, Mom. Even he admits it.”

Mrs. Lin blushed apologetically to Paul, who didn’t understand the reference and made a mental note to ask Scott later about it later.

“Wow,” Scott said, still impressed. “I can’t believe you actually wanted to take me in.”

“Imagine my surprise,” she said, “when I showed up and the woman in the office said, ‘I’m sorry, you’re a day too late—he _escaped_ last night.’“ She shook her head with a motherly smile. “It’s so good to see you again. And see you’re doing okay.”

Billy asked Scott, “You still remember any Mandarin?”

Scott shook his head. “Not really.”

Paul looked at Scott, impressed. “You knew Chinese?”

Scott tried to shrug it off. “A few words.”

“He’s being modest,” Mrs. Lin said to Paul. “He has a tremendous aptitude for languages. I don’t know why he doesn’t want to admit it. I hope you make him study.”

Scott wanted the conversation to turn to something that didn’t involve giving him more homework, but Paul was smiling at him with appreciation. He looked at Mrs. Lin. “I know a little Chinese.”

“You do?” she said brightly.

Paul repeated his phrase for her with perfect Mandarin inflection and cadence.

An odd silence fell over the room. Mrs. Lin and Billy were staring at Paul. Scott froze at their reaction, his bite of food stopping halfway down his throat.

Mrs. Lin scrutinized Paul. “‘Greetings from the people of Earth’?”

Paul tried not to react. He had known the phrase was a salutation, but he hadn’t known the specifics. “Well,” he said with as much aplomb as he could muster, “you never know when it might come in handy.”

Mrs. Lin regarded him skeptically, then frowned at Scott. “He _is_ your father.” Scott cleared his throat and tried to swallow. “Did you tell him about your last Kung Hee Fat Choy dinner?”

Scott and Billy looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

“Scott was the floor show,” she explained to Paul. “My family always has a big Chinese New Year’s dinner over at my Uncle Fan Shuh’s house, and the last year Scott was here, he came along and he had Billy teach him a sentence to drop during the meal.” She looked at Scott, trying to look stern but a smile gave her away. “‘Quick, get a cleaver, the fish is crawling off my plate.’“

The boys laughed again, and Mrs. Lin and Paul joined them.

“So how is everybody?” Scott asked, finally seeing his chance to change the subject.

“Dorie—Billy’s older sister,” she explained to Paul, “—is doing her junior year abroad in France. She’s having a wonderful time, although she got homesick at first.” She smiled at Paul proudly. “She’s got a full four-year scholarship to the University of Washington.”

Billy picked up the chronicle. “Mike’s got a girlfriend, so I don’t see him a lot these days. Arno’s still the same.” Billy rolled his eyes with disapproval, and Scott chuckled. “And Jessica! Wow! She got her braces off and her face cleared up and she’s gorgeous!”

Scott said confidentially to Paul, “She used to have a crush on me.” Paul smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, right,” Billy said sarcastically. “And cheese grows on the moon.”

Paul frowned. He was about to dispute Billy’s assertion when Scott cut him off in time with a hand on his arm and an “I’ll explain it later” look. “What about Sandy?” Scott asked.

“We still hang out. He’s missed you a lot. Especially all the help you gave him with his homework.”

“What about Tim?”

Scott realized something was wrong when an unexpected pall fell over the room. Billy and his mother looked at each other quietly, an awkward moment passing between them as they silently tried to decide who would answer him. Mrs. Lin said quietly, “Tim was in a car accident in August.”

Scott reacted with alarm but said nothing.

“He’d just gotten his license,” she explained, “and he was out celebrating with some friends and I guess he was driving too fast and the car went over an embankment.” She looked at Billy, then back at Scott. “A couple of the kids were banged up, and one girl was hurt pretty bad, but it looks like she’s going to be okay now.”

“Betsy Hendricks,” Billy said to Scott, who nodded in acknowledgment.

“Tim’s been in a coma since the accident,” Mrs. Lin concluded, “and the doctors aren’t sure he’s going to come out of it.”

Scott sat silently, the terrible news sinking in. Paul could offer no other help than sympathy. Suddenly fear flashed in Scott’s eyes as he looked at Mrs. Lin. “Was the accident on his birthday?”

Both Billy and Mrs. Lin lowered their eyes in solemn acknowledgment. “Yes, it was,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.” Scott shuddered and sat back in anguish. Paul didn’t understand, but he could feel Scott’s pain at the significance of the date. He would have to ask him about it later.

“It’s creepy,” Billy said. “He came by here looking for me to go with him, but I had to work in the store. I was really mad at Mom for making me go because I knew he was taking his test and I wanted to celebrate with him. But now I’m grateful.”

“Can he have visitors?” Scott asked finally.

Mrs. Lin shook her head. “I think it’s only family. I know his mother used to go in every day to talk to him and tell him about what was going on. I guess that helps some patients, if you can get their attention or something like that. But it hasn’t worked, and I don’t know if she goes in anymore.” She looked at Scott sadly. “This has been real hard on the Kilpatricks. You know, they’re so close-knit. They were really good to us when Gary died—my husband,” she explained to Paul. “And they contributed a lot of money to get you out of Leland Hall. I wish there were something I could do, but I don’t know what.”

The conversation turned to easier subjects, and they talked into the evening. Paul developed a deep fondness for Billy and his mother. He was glad his son had had such good friends when he was growing up. Mrs. Lin, for her part, lost her initial uncertainty about Paul and realized that Scott was in excellent hands. She understood when they said they couldn’t stay. She explained she had met George Fox after Scott had left, and although she thought he was after them simply for Scott’s unauthorized exit from Leland Hall, she said she knew they had to keep a low profile and keep moving. She offered whatever help she could give them. Before he and Paul left, Scott made sure she told him what hospital Tim Kilpatrick was in.

On the drive to their motel, Paul told Scott how much he liked the Lins, and he also asked what a tightwad was.

Scott’s mind was elsewhere, but he said, “It’s a miser, someone who doesn’t like to spend money. Like someone who uses the same tea bag 20 times.”

Paul nodded. “What does ‘in a coma’ mean?”

“Remember when you were really sick and we couldn’t wake you up? That’s a coma.”

Paul nodded. “I’m sorry that’s happened to your friend.”

“Yeah.” Scott was still chewing on this. “Tim’s a good friend. It’s not fair.”

“Why did you ask if the accident took place on his birthday?” Paul asked quietly.

Scott shuddered. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Paul knew it was not “nothing,” but Scott didn’t want to talk about it. The subject was dropped.

******

The package of mail arrived the next day, and in it was an intriguing invitation in a note from Liz. She wrote that an art professor named Madelyn Andrews-Carrughers, who taught at St. Costello College, a small school near Tacoma, was organizing an exhibit of award-winning photography, including some of the real Paul Forrester’s work. She had called Liz when she heard that Paul was alive after all after his _Light of the Plains_ assignment. She asked Liz to relay to him an invitation to attend the reception, which was going to be held on January 2, the first day of the school’s winter term. Paul would receive a modest artist’s fee for the use of Paul Forrester’s photos, and in addition he would get a not-so-small honorarium if he would agree to chat with some students at an informal gathering before the reception. Liz wrote across the bottom of the note: “She’s a good friend of mine, but she didn’t know Paul at all. You might want to consider this if you think you can get through the chat in one piece.” Paul asked Scott with concern why Liz would think he would be in more than one piece after a chat, and Scott tried to keep a straight face as he explained what she meant. Scott thought it was worth a try, and the honorarium couldn’t hurt. The car had eaten up a good-sized chunk of their money, so Paul agreed to do it.

Paul called Madelyn, who was ecstatic that she had been able to reach him. She explained that none of the other photographers was available and/or interested, and she was afraid the show was going to fall apart from apathy. She invited him to come over that afternoon since he was so close. She promised a lavish welcome and deluxe accommodations, complete with an open bar tab at the faculty club and the use of someone’s Jaguar. Paul knew she had designed these enticements to persuade the real Paul Forrester, but he decided it wasn’t worth adapting to fulfill her expectations. He explained that he was traveling with his son and didn’t need such extravagance. She reacted with some surprise at this, and then backtracked into polite conversation. They chatted for a while, and Paul realized he had passed some sort of test with her when she offered to let them stay in the guest rooms in her house for the extra days if they wanted. Paul accepted the offer. Their conversation ended with Madelyn saying she would expect them for dinner.

Paul was ready to leave right away and get there early, but Scott wanted to make a stop first. He said seriously, “You know, Dad, there’ve been times when you’ve wanted to do things, to help people, when I thought it was stupid and dangerous, but you had to do it and you knew it was the right thing. I guess it’s my turn now. I want to go see Tim Kilpatrick.”

“What do you want to do?” Paul asked quietly.

“I don’t know. I think maybe I can reach him. Maybe not, but I want to try.” He looked at his father earnestly. “Please?”

Paul thought for a moment. “Which way is the hospital?”

******

On the way to the hospital, Paul noticed that Scott seemed quite calm, if uncertain about what he was going to do. He remembered other such times, when Scott would become jittery or make empty jokes. He had changed, Paul realized. It was a subtle difference, but there was definitely a change taking place in his son. Paul believed that human parents were supposed to allow their children to develop their own strength and to encourage them to grow and find their own way. He had tried to do this, giving Scott some guidance but mostly letting him learn the lessons that are better experienced than taught. Now here was Scott, willing to do what he could to help a friend in trouble, even if it meant taking some chances. When Paul had met his son in this town more than two years ago, Scott had been altogether different. So much of the time he had been angry, opportunistic, and even willing to leave other people with problems that he had created. But now, as Paul pulled the car into the hospital’s parking lot, he looked at this young man and saw a far more mature person. There were still some highly unpredictable emotions roaming around in that body, but Scott’s focus had changed. Paul had met many people from all parts of the spectrum from selfish to selfless; he wondered if all human children went through this transition, and some simply got stuck somewhere along the way. As much as he had loved the old Scott, he also found great admiration for this new Scott. Paul thought maybe he was doing okay as a human father.

Paul parked the car in an empty space near the entrance and looked at his son. “Do you know what you want to do?”

“Not really. I just want to get into his room. He’s probably in intensive care or something and all wired for sound.”

Paul frowned. “‘Wired for sound’?”

Scott shook his head, backing up. “I mean, he’s connected to all sorts of medical machines that are monitoring his heart and breathing and like that.” He looked at the hospital’s entrance seriously. “Mrs. Lin’s probably right. I may not be able to get into his room.” He looked at his father with a sly confidence. “But I’m going to try.” He turned to open the door, then stopped and turned back to his father. “Can you please come in with me? I may need a diversion.”

Paul wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “What kind of diversion?”

Scott shrugged. “I don’t know. We can improvise.” Scott got out of the car, and Paul followed, not sure he liked the sound of “improvise,” either. Maybe Scott hadn’t changed so much after all.

Scott got Tim’s room number from the information desk, and he and Paul walked through the corridors to the appropriate section. They were surprised at how many visitors were there that day, and Scott secretly wondered whether under these circumstances a diversion from his father would do more harm than good.

They were walking past a waiting area in the section Tim was in when Scott stopped suddenly. He looked at a girl of about 14 who was sitting in the waiting area, wiping her eyes and trying to read a magazine. Scott walked up to her as Paul stayed behind. “Cindy?”

The girl looked up at Scott, then reacted with surprise. “Scott Hayden?” She blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see Tim.” He sat down next to her.

She wiped her eyes again. “Mom’s in with him now.”

“Where’s everybody else?” Scott asked quietly.

“Dad took them home.” Her eyes began to fill. “It’s really bad, Scott. The doctor said today we’re going to have to start thinking about ... maybe he’s not going to make it.” Tears skipped down her cheeks, and she tried in vain to catch them with her tissue.

“Is Tim getting worse?” Scott asked, trying not to betray worry.

She shook her head. “No. But he’s not getting any better, and the doctors don’t know what to do.” She looked at Scott, not quite holding back her fears. “I don’t want him to die, Scott.” She cried, and Scott put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t want him, too, either. I’m going to go see your mom. Which way is his room?”

She discarded her limp tissue and started a new one. “It’s the first door on the right after the nurses’ station.” He patted her hand, and she gave him a tear-stained hopeful look. Scott got up and joined his father. They went down the hall to near the nurses’ station and stopped.

Scott whispered to his father, “Stay here and just kind of ... keep an eye on things.” He walked quietly past the nurses’ station, where two nurses were busy working. Paul sat in a chair in the hall opposite the station as Scott approached the door to Tim’s room.

As Scott put his hand on the door lever, an eagle-eyed nurse suddenly looked up from her work and glared at him. “You’re not family.”

Scott was caught off guard for a moment, then pointed at the door and gave the nurse his best innocent look. “Mrs. Kilpatrick sent for me.”

She relented, but said firmly, “Ten minutes.” Scott nodded quickly and slipped inside the room.

Paul frowned to himself as he watched his son disappear. Scott was still a remarkably good liar. It was a useful skill to have for the way they had to live, but he didn’t have to be so comfortable with it. They would have to discuss that later.

When Scott entered the room the sight that greeted him stopped him dead in his tracks. Stretched out on a bed and surrounded by the best technology the hospital could muster lay the still, pale body of a 16-year-old boy who should have been anywhere but here. Scott had prepared himself for Tim looking dead, but he was surprised that Tim looked as if he were simply asleep. Aside from the wires and intravenous tubes snaking out from his body, he looked as if he were taking a deep nap and a good jostle would wake him up. There was an unfamiliar thinness to him, however, as if he were wasting away, or disappearing. Scott shook off the thought. He couldn’t remember seeing Tim so still. Tim had always been a perpetual motion machine. His dad had nicknamed him “the Tasmanian Devil” after the wild, whirling cartoon character. All the kids in the neighborhood had called him “Tasbo” for short. But now here he was, lying motionless in this forbidding room, surrounded by familiar items from home that were starkly out of place in the midst of all the life support hardware. The only sound was the gentle whirring of the machinery, punctuated by a slow, steady beep registering Tim’s heartbeat. The stillness was unnatural and oppressive.

Sitting next to Tim was his mother. Scott didn’t remember her looking so old, but she had been living through hard times. Scott could see she had been crying earlier, although she had stopped now. She was brushing Tim’s hair lightly with her fingers, looking as if she had just finished telling him a bedtime story. She looked up at Scott, then reacted with surprise.

“Hi, Mrs. Kilpatrick,” he said quietly. “I came when I found out what happened.” She indicated for Scott to come closer, and he sat in the second chair near the bed. “I saw Cindy out in the waiting room. She told me what the doctor said.”

Mrs. Kilpatrick nodded. “It’s good to see you again, Scott. We’ve missed you.”

He tried a small smile that didn’t work. “I’ve missed everyone, too.”

She looked at her silent son. “He used to talk about you a lot, wonder where you were, how you were doing. He always said he thought you were doing okay.” She looked at Scott. “Are you? You look good.”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good.” She looked at her son for a long moment, then said in a low voice, “You know how sometimes you say things that at the time seem so innocent, just a silly joke, and then later you’d give anything to take it back?” Scott nodded. “When he left the house that day, I said, ‘And if you do _anything_ to that car, don’t bother coming back.’“ She sighed. “There have been nights where I couldn’t sleep and I kept wondering why on Earth I said that.” She looked at Scott significantly. “He’s still here, you know.” She indicated Tim. “I can feel it. He’s not dead. He’s still here. But I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve tried everything. Our priest said it’s up to him now. He has to want to come out of it.”

Scott smiled slightly in spite of himself. “You know Tim. He’s just waiting for someone to beg.”

She smiled gently as she looked at her son. “I already tried that. I even brought in chocolate chip cookies straight from the oven and waved them under his nose. And I said, ‘If you don’t wake up, I’m going to give all of these to your sisters and we’re not going to save you a single one.’“ Her smile melted into sadness.

“Mrs. Kilpatrick, can I try?” Scott could feel his confidence rising, although he didn’t know where it was coming from. “Tim and I always operated on the same wavelength. You know, ‘the twins.’ Maybe I can do something.”

She looked at Scott, then at Tim’s immobile face. “If you know the secret code ...” She held Tim’s hand gently for a moment, then stood up. She put her hand on Scott’s shoulder as she went past. “Thank you, Scott.” She went out the door.

Scott quickly shifted to the chair Mrs. Kilpatrick had vacated and took Tim’s hand firmly, making sure not to disturb the wires and tubes. “Tim, it’s me, Scott Hayden. Okay, look, Tasbo, I’ve got about eight million things to tell you, but I don’t have a lot of time. The bottom line is I’m still one day older than you are and you still have to do what I tell you.” He pulled out his sphere and held it up in front of Tim. “This is called a sphere, and it’s a long story, so I’ll tell you about it later. I’m going to try something with this. And I’m not sure it’s going to work, but it’s sort of like the Vulcan Mind Meld. So don’t panic if weird stuff starts happening, okay?”

Scott connected with his sphere, still not sure what he was doing. All he wanted to do was get into Tim’s mind and, well, wake him up. He had no idea how he was actually going to accomplish this, but he hoped he would figure it out on the way. He looked at Tim, concentrating. For a minute or so, nothing happened. Then suddenly Scott felt the car accident through Tim’s memory—screams of terror, the spinning flashes of green grass on the windshield, the shuddering thunder of the car rolling down the incline. The image burst on Scott with such violence that for a moment he felt as if he were back in the accident that had killed the Lockharts. He shouted with surprise and jumped back.

The eagle-eyed nurse out at the station perked up at the surprised sound of Scott’s voice and looked at the room with a protective ferocity. Paul had also heard the noise, and when he saw the nurse put down her work to go investigate, he had no time to plan a diversion. He looked back down the hall and sent a small voice from the waiting area: “Nurse, I need some help.” The nurse stopped near the door and turned. She looked at the door, listening intently to what was going on inside but obviously torn by this request for help. Paul sent the voice again: “Nurse.” Tim’s room was silent, so the woman turned and headed down the hall to answer the call.

Paul watched as she stuck her head into the waiting area and asked, “What’s the matter?”

Cindy was visible to Paul past the nurse’s elbow, and she looked up at the nurse. “What?”

“Didn’t you just call for me?”

Cindy shook her head, a little baffled. She looked at her mother, who was out of Paul’s line of vision. “No.”

Although Paul could not see the nurse’s face, her body language clearly conveyed annoyance. She turned back and muttered impatiently as she returned to her station. But before she started her work again, she looked up and glared at Paul. “Did you hear something just now?”

He gave her his best innocent look. “Hear what?”

She frowned and went back to her work. Paul breathed a silent sigh of relief and wondered why it was that humans often had to lie in order to do the right thing. 

In the room, Scott had recovered from his fright and looked at his friend. There was no change, and Scott was grateful for that. He looked at his sphere, which had fallen silent. He took Tim’s hand again. “Sorry.” With a little less certainty this time, Scott connected with his sphere. He looked at Tim, settling in. “Tim.” He searched for what to say. “Do you want to come back?” He looked with his mind, but the answer came through his heart. Scott suddenly felt a rush of guilt, and it took him a moment to realize it was not his own but Tim’s. Scott looked deeper, and again he could not see the answer but he could feel it. Scott sat silently as the parade of Tim’s transgressions passed through him—driving irresponsibly, panicking, the others being hurt, the cherished family car being demolished, the medical bills he had caused, the pain and suffering for all the families involved. Without knowing how he knew this, Scott sensed Tim’s humiliation and desire to run away and “put an end” to everyone’s suffering.

Scott smiled slightly. “Tim, nobody blames you. Betsy’s getting better. Billy said she’s going to be all right. A car’s just a car. I’m sure the insurance took care of it. ... Everybody wants you back. They love you, Tim. We all do. We want you back.” Scott blinked a few times. “... Look, I know how you feel. I really do. We all make mistakes. Some are bigger than others. And we learn from them. ... It’s okay to forgive yourself, Tim. Come on. Wake up.”

There was no more he could do. Tim was so still, so silent. Scott looked at his face and, imagining him without the tubes that kept him alive, could see Tim lying in a coffin, surrounded by tasteful flower arrangements and his crying family, his hair combed a little too neatly and his clothes a little too new. Scott gave up. He disconnected from the sphere. The only sound in the room was the gentle whir of the machines and the steady, slow beep that acknowledged each beat of Tim’s heart.

Scott was shifting to get up when something on the monitor caught his eye. The display that stated Tim’s average heartbeat per minute said 38. Hadn’t it said 36 before? A trick of the light, Scott concluded. He stood up. No, wait—now it said 39. Forty. Forty-one. The machine that recorded each of Tim’s breaths also began to react. The steady printout was developing an irregularity. Scott looked closely at Tim’s face. Was there more color? Or was it Scott’s imagination? The heart monitor now clearly stated 45 beats per minute. Tim’s breathing had been almost imperceptible before, but now Scott could see his chest moving up and down. He turned to open the door and call the nurse when the door burst open and the two nurses from the station came in.

“What happened?” the eagle-eyed nurse said as the other began to give Tim a quick examination.

“I was talking to him, and the heart thing started going up,” Scott said breathlessly. Paul appeared silently in the doorway, and Scott looked at him. There were voices in the hall, and Mrs. Kilpatrick and Cindy came into the room, obviously fearing the worst.

“What’s going on?” Mrs. Kilpatrick managed to say. Cindy was wringing her tissue into a knot.

The heart monitor now stated that Tim’s heart was up to 52 beats a minute.

A doctor came in quickly and took charge. “Everyone out of the room,” he said firmly.

But no one was listening.

Tim’s hand had twitched.

Mrs. Kilpatrick began to cry with joy, and Cindy started to sob. Scott looked at Paul in amazement, his eyes brimming with unexpected tears. Paul only smiled at him proudly.

The doctor fussed over Tim a bit, the nurses at the ready. Scott looked at the heart monitor. It said 56, no, 57 beats per minute. Tim made a sound—it wasn’t a grunt, it was more like a sharp breathing noise that some people make when they are waking up. It was the most wonderful sound Scott had ever heard.

Mrs. Kilpatrick pulled Scott into a long, crushing hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” was all she said. Was there anything else that needed to be said? Mrs. Kilpatrick turned to look at her son, then sent Cindy down the hall to call the family with the news. Cindy left as the professionals stood back to watch Tim, waiting patiently for him to move along at his own pace.

Another doctor came into the room, and Scott saw for the first time that several onlookers were standing outside the door, watching the proceedings. All of a sudden he felt the need to get out of there. All eyes were on Tim, so he and his father slipped out unnoticed. They passed Cindy at the nurses’ station as she was shouting joyfully into the phone, “Yes! Yes! He’s waking up!”

Paul and Scott were down the stairs and out of the hospital minutes later, gone without a trace. They did not know that five minutes later Mrs. Kilpatrick missed them and sent Cindy out on a search, or that Tim was fuzzy but acknowledging stimuli by the time the rest of his family got to his room, or that later that evening when Tim was fully conscious he answered the question of what had brought him out of it by saying, “I saw myself lying in my coffin, and it scared me—I sure knew I wasn’t ready for that!”

******

Paul and Scott quickly ensconced themselves in Madelyn Andrews-Carrughers’ magnificent Victorian mansion. Located on a small hill in the quiet college community, it was decorated with a cozy, eclectic combination of antiques and modern art and, on clear days, it had an excellent view of Puget Sound. However, the scenery was shrouded in low-hanging clouds and sheets of rain. A light drizzle that had started when Paul and Scott left the hospital had turned into a downpour by the time they reached their destination, and it was showing no sign of letting up.

Madelyn was quite something. She looked about 45 but acted more like 25, and she was short and stocky and dressed with a comfortable panache expected of an artist. Friendly and generous, she had a laugh that could rattle windows, she could outtalk the entire Congress, and she possessed a talent for cooking incredibly delicious food in Paul Bunyan-sized portions.

She was at first cautious around Paul. Even though she had never met Paul Forrester, she obviously knew his reputation well and was not entirely prepared for this easygoing family man. But once she concluded this wasn’t some sort of gag, she accepted this new development without a qualm.

The only tough moment came the night before the show’s reception and Paul’s meeting with the students. An accomplished photographer herself, Madelyn started a very technical discussion of photography. Paul had developed a practical, if abridged, understanding of photography during his two—plus years of continuing Paul Forrester’s career, but he was helpless when it came to such mysteries as the zone system, reciprocity failure and light-activated silicon-controlled rectifiers.

“So,” she said, acquiescing to the master, “what do you do to compensate for that gawd-awful color shift?”

Paul shrugged noncommittally. “... Well, ... I find that ... people do what’s best for them.” He looked at her earnestly. “What do you do?”

He didn’t have to say another word for the rest of the conversation. He learned a lot from Madelyn, but he was still quite concerned about what might happen during his meeting with interested students the next afternoon and he wondered if he could get out of it at the last minute.

It turned out that there was nothing to worry about. The morning of January 2 was supposed to see the start of the college’s winter term, but a vicious storm of snow mixed with rain had blown in from the Pacific on New Year’s Day and nearly half of the students were stranded between home and campus. Even though the storm had turned to heavy rain by that afternoon, no one showed up for the “Chat With Paul Forrester” before the reception, and only about 20 students and faculty members made it to the reception itself. Those who did show up were more interested in the hot hors d’oeuvres than Paul’s opinions. Madelyn apologized profusely for the “disappointing” turnout, but Paul was happy to be able to relax and enjoy the photo exhibit.

As the cold rain pounded on the windows, Paul and Scott ambled around the display. There was enough food to feed an army—Madelyn had cooked—and a cheery fire roared in the large room’s oversized fireplace. Recorded chamber music set the tone, and the conversations were low-key and friendly. Scott was trying to figure out how to spend the honorarium, which Paul had received anyway, when Paul stopped from his study of the show and stared at someone absorbed in a conversation near the fireplace. Scott saw this and looked at the man, but he didn’t recognize him.

Paul did. He was older now, probably 50, although there was still something of the youth about him. His hair was thinner, and his waist was thicker. But Paul knew him in an instant.

Paul left Scott and walked over to the man, who was seated in a comfortable chair at the fireside and was in the middle of a profound discussion with two professors on the pros and cons of using imitation bacon bits in salads. He was expressing his disapproval—”Where is all this ersatz salad business going to stop—’imitation lettuce’?”—when Paul stopped before him, smiling. The man looked up at him, giving him a not-very-impressed once-over. “So, you’re the famous excuse for all this frivolity.”

Paul smiled at him. “Mark Shermin.”

Mark blinked with surprise. “Have we met?” he asked, knowing they had not.

“Yes.”

Mark cleared his throat, then looked at his discussion companions with an ironic glance. “Well, Mr. Forrester, I’m sorry to disagree with the guest of honor, but you must be mistaken. I know I would remember someone as impressive as yourself.”

“You said there were so many questions you’d like to ask me, you hardly knew where to begin.” Paul was smiling fondly.

Mark frowned. There was something unsettling about this, and he shivered. He tried to shake it off with a casual shrug. “Well, I’m afraid I still don’t know where to begin.”

“You’d like to talk with me. Can I meet you later?”

Mark was developing serious doubts, but everyone was looking at him. “I have office hours tomorrow between three and four. I’m in the science building. Room 313.”

Paul smiled. “Good.”

Paul started to turn, but Mark stopped him with a gesture. “Four rather than three, okay?” There was something decidedly strange about this guy, and Mark was thinking that leaving at 3:45 might be a good idea. Paul nodded and left, and Mark’s companions chuckled at Mark’s puzzled reaction. Mark watched Paul gather up Scott and leave, never taking his eyes off him until he was out the door.

******

By the next afternoon, the campus was alive with students, and Paul walked through the after-class bustle to the science building. He found the way to Mark Shermin’s office with no trouble, and turned down the quiet hallway just as Mark was locking the door on his way out. Mark caught a glimpse of Paul and cursed under his breath. He looked at his watch: 3:50. He knew he should have left sooner.

“Why are you leaving?” Paul asked as he stopped next to Mark. “You said four rather than three.”

“You’ve got a good memory,” Mark said flatly as he clenched his keys. “Look, Forrester, something’s come up and I have to go, okay? Sorry. You know how it is.”

“Yes,” Paul said with calm discernment, “I know how it is. You think you don’t want to talk with me.”

Nailed, Mark covered with a laugh and shrug. “What makes you think that? Look, I’ve got to go.” He moved quickly past Paul to go to the stairs.

“Mark Shermin,” Paul called to him as the physicist tried to make good his escape, “I’m alive because you helped me a long time ago. You let me go.”

Mark was nearly to the stairs when he slowed and stopped. After a moment, he turned and looked back at Paul. “When?” His voice echoed sharply in the hallway.

“Seventeen years ago.”

Mark was frowning at Paul. He didn’t want to accept this. “Where?”

“Winslow, Arizona. The Indian Country Cafe.”

Mark was chewing hard on this but he wasn’t quite ready to swallow.

Paul was smiling slightly. “I said, ‘You are a strange species, not like any other, and you would be surprised how many there are. Intelligent but savage. Shall I tell you what I find beautiful about you? You are at your very best when things are worst.’“

Mark’s keys slipped from his hand and dropped noisily to the floor. He stared at Paul, then breathlessly gathered up the keys and trotted back to his office door. He managed to get the right key in the lock and threw the door open, ushering Paul in. Mark closed the door quickly, sat Paul down in the guest chair and then plunked into his desk chair. He sat forward eagerly, looking at Paul with rapt anticipation, then deflated with bewilderment. “I don’t believe it. You’re back. You came back. But wait a minute. You’re Paul Forrester.”

Paul shook his head. “No.”

Mark stared for a moment, then got it. “You cloned his body. Huh. How come you didn’t come back as Scott Hayden?”

Paul shrugged. “He wasn’t available.”

“Oh. But—but what about Paul Forrester?”

“He’s dead.”

Mark frowned. “You didn’t ... kill him, did you?”

“No. He died in a helicopter crash.”

“Wait, I think I remember that,” he said, thinking. “Yeah.” He frowned. “Some big miraculous escape or something. Those are always too good to be true.” He remembered something, then pointed at Paul. “But wait a minute. He was just missing again—I mean, you were missing—weren’t you? There was something in the paper a little while ago.”

“Yes. I had trauma-induced amnesia with cognitive dysfunction. But I’m okay now.”

Mark marveled. “You remember everything, don’t you?” Paul smiled and nodded. “I can’t believe you’re back. So you’ve been back for how long?”

“Two years.”

“Two years.” Mark shook his head with disbelief. “But I thought you couldn’t stay more than a couple days.”

“I used a different process this time. This body will last,” he shrugged, “at least a human lifetime.”

“... So you’re going to stay?”

“Yes.”

“... Did your friends come with you this time?”

“No.”

Mark wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed by this. “Why did you come back? What are you doing here?”

“We’re looking for Jenny Hayden.”

Mark smiled with recognition. “Yes, Mrs. Hayden.” His eyes suddenly flashed with shock. “—We?”

Paul smiled. “My son and I.”

Mark blinked. “You have a son! ... Is he one of ‘you’ or one of ‘us’?”

“Both.”

Mark couldn’t believe this. “Does Mrs. Hayden know about this?”

“Yes. She’s his mother.”

Mark shook his head sharply. “Of course. How old is he?”

“Sixteen.” 

“Oh, well, that makes sense.” Mark patted himself roughly on the side of his head. “Come on, Mark, get in gear.”

Paul frowned. Surely Mark Shermin knew there were no gears in the human head.

Mark tried again. “How come he isn’t with his mother? Did you take him away for training or something?”

“No. She had to give him to other people to raise because George Fox—”

Mark cut him off sharply. “—Don’t mention that man’s name.”

Paul hesitated, then continued, “... That man chased her after Scott was born, and he wasn’t safe with her.”

Mark smiled a bit. “She named him Scott?”

Paul smiled. “Yes.”

“He was that kid with you at the reception.” Paul nodded. Mark contemplated this for a moment. “Is he ... like you?”

Paul remembered Mary Hayden’s assessment. “He looks like a Hayden, but he’s built thin like a Geffner.”

“So he’s got Scott Hayden’s genes, too?”

“Yes.” 

“But, he’s ... one of ‘you,’ too?”

“Yes.”

This was incredible. A thousand questions leapt into Mark’s mind. “Can he do things? I mean, does he have alien powers?”

“He’s learning.”

“But, what can he do? I mean—I—I want to know everything.” Mark stopped to catch his breath. His brain was on overload. He put his elbows on his desk and rubbed his face. “I have so many questions.” He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know where to begin.” He smiled, then laughed and looked up at Paul. “I still don’t know where to begin.” He was slowing down a bit, although he wasn’t much calmer. “How did you find me?”

“I saw you sitting by the fire.”

Mark looked disappointed. “You mean, you ran into me by accident?” Paul nodded. Mark shook his head. “Boy, am I glad I always mooch at Madelyn’s receptions.” Mark was losing his edge. Too many questions were coming up, but none was coming out. He needed not to think. He got up and walked over to his small office refrigerator. He pulled out a beer and offered it to Paul. “Want one?”

“No, thank you.”

“That’s probably a very good idea.” He closed the refrigerator door with his foot as he opened the beer and walked back to his chair. He sat and took a long pull, still wallowing in the shock.

Paul looked around at the cluttered office. “I thought you were with SETI. This isn’t SETI, is it?”

Mark laughed sharply. “My little act of kindness to you turned me into an instant ex-GS-11. No, I’m not with SETI anymore.” He took another swallow of his beer. “I went back to Cornell, or, at least I tried to. I left there on sabbatical before I got tenure, and I was too hot a potato for them when I got back. So I found my way out to this haven of happiness, where I could drown myself in mediocrity and try not to think about what might have been.” He looked at Paul intently. “Do you know what I gave up when I let you go? I gave up everything I’d ever hoped for in my entire life. Not that I’m sorry I did it. I may not eat very well, but at least I can sleep at night.” He leaned forward seriously. “Ever since I was eight years old, I always wanted to know what ‘people out there’ were like. And I had one, sitting right in front of me. ... And I let you go.” He shook his head. “And you came back.” He squinted. “You’re a lot different now. You’re a lot more human.”

Paul nodded. “My son’s been teaching me.”

Mark smiled slightly. “And are you teaching him about ... being an alien?”

“A little.” Paul shrugged. “Most things he has to learn for himself. Just like it is for most children.”

Mark smiled, then laughed and rubbed his face again. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking about child-rearing with someone from another planet!” Mark looked up at him eagerly. “How long are you going to be here? I need to ask you so many questions. But I need to regroup a little bit. Can you come back tomorrow?” Paul nodded. Mark hesitated, hoping against hope. “... If I ask you questions, will you answer them?”

Paul nodded. “If I know the answers.”

Mark laughed to himself. “If you know the answers!” He thought for a moment, developing a plan. “Okay, look, I get out of class tomorrow at 1:30. Can we meet back here at ...,” he chuckled, “... 1:31?”

“Okay.”

Mark looked at him with a rising joy and saluted him with his beer. “All right. Tomorrow at 1:31.”

******

That night, Madelyn was getting the first symptoms of a cold and Paul and Scott volunteered to do the dishes so she could go to bed early. As they tackled the mound of dirty dishes, Paul told Scott about his appointment with Mark Shermin the following afternoon, and Scott’s annoyed reaction was, “How come you’re going to tell him everything and you won’t tell me _anything?_ ”

“Because you already know everything I’m going to tell him,” was Paul’s even reply. “You just have to realize it.”

That did nothing to make Scott feel better. “So how come you told him who you are, anyway? You didn’t have to.”

Paul handed Scott a plate to dry. “Because he saved my life. I think that makes him a friend. After all, you’re Tim Kilpatrick’s friend, and you saved his life.”

Scott shrugged that off uncomfortably. “Well, I don’t know that I saved his life. But I mean, this guy used to work for Fox. How can you be sure you can trust him? I mean, maybe he’s setting you up so he can get his old job back. This place isn’t exactly Cornell. He could probably cut a deal with Fox and get exclusive rights to your brain.”

Paul hadn’t thought of that, but he wasn’t convinced. “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t feel he was hiding anything from me. He just wants to ask me questions. He didn’t get a chance before. He gave up his career to help me. I owe him a chance to finish the conversation we didn’t have time for 17 years ago.” Paul passed Scott a handful of silverware.

“Well, just be careful what you say, okay? You never know what might happen.”

“Yes,” Paul said earnestly, changing the subject, “I’d like to talk with you about being careful about what you say. Back at the hospital, you were very good at lying your way into Tim’s room. You were very ... smooth.”

Scott laughed with delight.

“I don’t think that’s something you should be proud of,” Paul cautioned. “Sometimes I worry that you’re such a good liar and that you have to lie so often.”

“Come on, Dad,” Scott said casually, “let’s face it. We have to. That’s the only way we can live. And I’m not the only one doing this here. You lie every time you answer to the name Paul Forrester. Can you imagine what would happen if tomorrow you started introducing yourself by saying, ‘Hello, I’m from another planet, but I live here now.’ People would go nuts. The world is definitely not ready for us yet.”

Paul frowned. “I know. But I don’t like a lot of the things you’ve learned during the last two years.”

Scott laughed. “Hey, don’t worry about it. After all, it’s not what you know, it’s how you use it.” He gave his father a confidential nod as he finished drying the last pot.

******

At breakfast the next morning, over Scott’s protests that he didn’t need a babysitter, Paul asked Madelyn to keep an eye on Scott during the afternoon. She asked Paul skeptically what kind of project he could be working on with that “academic lounge lizard” Mark Shermin, but when Paul replied vaguely that it was “a research project,” she privately decided it probably had to do with researching the physics of beer and basketball.

Paul arrived at Mark’s office at 1:25 and found him fussing over something on his desk. “Come in!” Mark said eagerly and gestured for Paul to come in. “I finished the lecture early and sent everyone off to the library.”

Paul closed the door and was about to sit in the guest chair when he saw what Mark was working on. It was a tape recorder. “What’s that for?” he asked with concern.

“Well, you may have a perfect memory, but I need all the help I can get.” He finished setting up the microphones and pulled a cassette off the top of a considerable stack and put it in the machine.

Paul didn’t like this development at all. “I can’t let you record this.”

Mark looked at him and saw he meant business. “Why not?”

“It’s too dangerous.” Paul was about to say George Fox’s name, but then remembered Mark’s interdiction the day before. “... That man is still looking for us.”

Mark frowned. “What man?”

“You told me not to mention his name.”

“Oh.” Mark shook his head. “Fox, yeah, go ahead.”

“I can’t give you any information he might be able to use against us.”

Mark hadn’t considered this and he was devastated. He looked at Paul pleadingly. “Please. You’ve got to let me use this. I’ve got to find out everything I can about you, and there’s no other way I can get all the information quickly.” Paul still wasn’t convinced, and Mark cogitated for a moment. “Okay, look. We can talk, I’ll tape everything. Then I’ll transcribe the tapes and delete all the specifics that Fox could use. I know how his mind works, so I know what to take out. Then I’ll destroy the tapes _and_ the original transcripts. The only thing left would be the edited version, and there’d be nothing in it Fox could use, even if he knew about it.”

Paul was still frowning, but this seemed safe enough. “How can I be sure you’ll do it?”

Mark was desperate enough to agree to anything. “Look, you can even signal me when you start getting into specifics, and I’ll stop the tape. I promise I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want. This is the second chance of a lifetime. I don’t want to lose it again.”

Paul took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You promise you’ll destroy the tapes?”

“Yes. Every single one. I won’t just erase them. I’ll burn them. And then bury them.”

Paul contemplated this. “How quickly can you do the transcripts? Will I be able to see them?”

“A week,” Mark said, taking a wild guess. “I’ll have everything done in a week and you can go over them.”

“What will you do with this information?”

Mark should not have been surprised by the question, but he was. He looked away from Paul’s steady gaze. “I don’t know. Scientists all over the world have been waiting for this ... I want to do something. I have to.”

“I won’t let you do anything that will hurt Scott.”

Mark leaned forward sincerely. “I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to hurt your son. I just want to know everything I can about you and where you come from. I give you my solemn promise that I will not let any of this information get out of my control. I will never tell anyone who you and Scott are, even if Fox gets a court order and has me thrown in jail. Absolutely nothing that could be used against you will make it past the first transcripts. If you want, you can listen to all the tapes and read both sets of transcripts, and you can take out whatever you want. I’ll even let you light the match to burn the tapes and first transcripts if you want.” Mark shrugged. “No scholarly journal would touch anything written under those conditions.” He fixed his eyes on Paul. “Just getting the real information would be worth any damage to my reputation, which is already in pretty bad shape. Trust me. No one will ever be able to identify you or get anything to use against you.”

Paul knew Mark was telling him the truth. He could feel how desperately Mark wanted this interview. This man had helped him in a way he could not repay in kind, and Paul was not adverse to answering Mark’s questions. There seemed to be enough safeguards to protect his and Scott’s anonymity. He nodded. “All right.”

The two talked late into the night. The conversation ranged from the molecular construction of Paul’s cloned body to the technology which guided his space craft. Paul demonstrated how his sphere worked, and he talked about the differences between the sphere he had now and the ones he had brought with him 17 years earlier. Paul replied to Mark’s questions as best he could; some questions were irrelevant, while others were unanswerable. But Mark didn’t seem to mind when Paul was stymied. He drank in each answer eagerly, his long thirst for knowledge finally being quenched. As each tape ended, Mark replaced it with a new one, marking each simply with a number in sequence.

Paul was impressed by how much Mark understood, and he was surprised by his own reaction to the conversation. He had never felt the need to “debrief,” as Scott called it, and tell anyone about himself. Scott had tried to explain to him about how most humans needed to talk about themselves, and although he had certainly seen this phenomenon many times he had never completely understood the motivation. Now, sitting in this somewhat disheveled but safe office with an equally disheveled but understanding companion, Paul began to experience a new and almost soothing feeling of comfort in this action. He remembered Scott’s explanation and it began to make sense to him now: “It feels good when someone knows everything about you and they want to hear about you. You know they care about you and it makes you feel like you’re okay.”

Mark had been prepared enough to have sandwiches in his office refrigerator so they would not have to stop for dinner, and the two talked through their meal. They were startled when the security guard knocked on the office door with an apology for interrupting them, saying he was used to people working until three in the morning at the end of the term but not the beginning. The two were surprised at how late the hour was and agreed to meet again the next day at four.

******

Four days and 29 hours of recorded conversation later, Mark ran out of questions. He was exhausted, having gotten virtually no sleep between classes, talking with Paul and trying to transcribe the tapes. He was a good typist, but the transcribing work was harder than he had anticipated. Yet he refused to stop and rest, saying the opportunity was far greater than the discomfort. However, the last several tapes were punctuated by Mark’s yawns and frequent breaks for coffee, and his responses to Paul’s statements indicated that he wasn’t altogether there.

When Paul left their last meeting, Mark looked at the mound of recorded tapes and moaned. There was no way he was going to get all of these transcribed by Wednesday to keep his promise to Paul. The situation was desperate; it was time for desperate measures. The following morning, with only a slight qualm, Mark asked Bonnie, the part-time student employee in the physics department office, to name her price for transcribing into his office personal computer the remaining 27 hours of tape, come hell or high water, by noon on Wednesday. She stared at the tapes, took a deep breath, and came up with a monetary figure that Mark could afford. They shook hands and, after he gave her a strict lecture on not letting anyone else hear the tapes and not duplicating them in any way, she went to work.

She was as good as her word, and when Paul arrived Wednesday after Mark’s afternoon lecture, Mark was leafing through the transcripts with casual familiarity. They went through the papers together, deleting all of the specifics as well as some generalizations that Paul deemed too dangerous.

By that Friday, both were satisfied that there was nothing left in the transcripts to identify either Paul or Scott. Mark edited the texts while Paul watched, then updated the files. He erased all the old related files and, after transferring the new files and other essential data to floppy disks, he even reformatted the computer’s hard disk so a retrieval program would not be able to recover information from the original sectors. Mark had the edited transcripts printed out by Saturday afternoon and, as a final gesture, Paul erased the tapes with his sphere and Mark burned the original transcripts.

Mark sat at his desk and looked at the edited transcripts with a sense of accomplishment. “Thank you, Paul. Working on this project really made me see how I let go of my sense of purpose. I used to be excited about going to work every day, and I haven’t felt that way in a long time.” He smiled at Paul. “I feel like a kid again.”

Paul smiled at his friend. “Through you I think I understand humans a little better. You’re even more complicated than I thought.” Mark laughed, and Paul looked at him earnestly. “I trust you, Mark. I know you won’t let this information be used against us.”

Mark shrugged and patted the pile of papers. “No journal this side of Nepal would accept it. Without any sort of verification, no one would believe me. I don’t know what good this is, but I’m glad I’ve got it.”

Paul stood up. “Scott and I have to go.”

Mark stood up with him. “Where are you going? Do you know?” Paul shook his head. “Well, good luck in finding Mrs. Hayden. That’s a very small needle in a very big haystack.”

Paul wondered about that one, and filed it away to ask Scott about later. “Goodbye, Mark Shermin,” he said, shaking Mark’s hand.

“Thanks again, Paul.”

Paul went to the door, but Mark called after him. “Hey, can I get in touch with you if I need to?”

Paul shook his head. “No.”

Mark nodded with understanding, and Paul left.

******

Paul and Scott prepared to leave first thing Sunday morning, and Madelyn packed them enough food to last a week. With no particular direction in mind, they headed south.

******

In five short days, Mark Shermin was reduced to a pitiable, tormented man. He sat in the faculty lounge on a blustery winter afternoon. Sitting on the table before him were the transcripts, which he had put into a large three-ring binder. Answers to questions scientists and philosophers had been asking for generations were at his fingertips, but there was nothing to be done with them. But what was more important, here was a voice from outside their world, an observer who had seen mankind at its worst and best and who offered a vision of humans that no human could ever have. Here were the words and insights of this wonderful person, with his wisdom and gentleness and generosity and ... Oh, God. Once again Mark was awake nights, but now it was from frustration. If he had known how dreadful living with this useless treasure was going to be, he might have sent Paul away with a “Nice to see you again but don’t talk to me.”

Catherine Canna, an English professor who at one point had contemplated getting to know Mark more than socially, stopped across from him. “What’s the matter? You look like your dog just died.”

“What would you do,” he said in sad, even tones, “if you had information that people have been looking for for longer than history itself, and no scientific journal in the world would take it?”

She shrugged, then smiled slightly. “I’d write a really great novel.”

She went on her way and left him to his misery, but the marble of an idea in the Mousetrap game in Mark’s mind began to roll. _Click, rattle rattle, kerplunk_. Some idea was taking shape, but he didn’t know what it was. Then, ... wham! Of course! The realization hit him with such force that he stood up and shouted, “My God!” The others in the lounge looked at him with silent concern and disapproval. Mark was beginning to hyperventilate. Of course! He looked down at the transcripts with renewed vigor. He looked at the others and hastily gathered what instant dignity he could, then scooped up the notebook and left on the run.

******

Paul and Scott continued traveling south, following no pattern, until they found themselves in Vacaville, California. Through a friendly conversation in a grocery store checkout line, Paul met an elderly couple who owned a small farm outside town. They were looking for a handyman to help get things in order. The couple’s farm was on the bus route for the local high school, and the bunkhouse was available for the father and son. Paul had the job before they left the store.

What Paul and Scott thought would be a temporary job turned into a five-month stay. After their traumatic time apart, Paul decided they could both benefit from a quiet time together. The man and woman were pleasant and respectful of privacy, and their place was far enough off the beaten path that there were no unexpected visitors. The farm was covered with orchards, and Paul watched with appreciation as the turning of the seasons changed the cold rains of winter into the florid blush of spring. He had a few problems with some of the repair work he had to do, but what Scott couldn’t coach him through he fixed with the guidance of several do-it-yourself books from the library. He also watched over Scott’s deliberate progress as he practiced with his sphere, saying nothing specific but always encouraging. 

The stay in Vacaville was a godsend for Scott. He had peace and quiet and a place he could call home for five solid months. He got his driver’s license and, for the first time since he and his father had met, he actually finished a full semester of high school. He had friends, although he stayed aloof at first, just in case. Scott proudly wore Tom’s letter jacket every day, with its array of pins and badges touting Tom’s successful baseball career, but he regretfully declined the many offers to join the high school baseball team. He hung out with the science club, although he never officially joined—that way he would stay out of the yearbook, especially the club photo.

Scott fell in love with the countryside. The orchards were tranquil, and the hills were alive and wild and cozy all at the same time. He felt absolute-ly at home here. Some days he would walk down the winding roads through the round, green hills as far as he could go. Sometimes he traveled so far that he couldn’t walk back before dark and had to call for a ride home. He had a favorite spot at the edge of an upper meadow. Several large rocks created a natural perch on the ridge of the wooded hill, and Scott could see for ten miles. Oak trees provided the canopy, and he could sit and think.

In his secret spot he would look over the gentle countryside and contemplate his life. So many strange things had happened. What would happen next? Would he ever be able to lead a normal life? Would he ever have a girlfriend? Would he have a chance to get married and have children? If he did have children, what would they be like? How diluted could the alien business get before it disappeared? As always, his father had nothing to say when Scott asked him about these matters. “I know, I know,” Scott would say, “I’ll know.” This oft-repeated refrain had become a joke between them.

Scott thought about Tom Kuehn, and Tim Kilpatrick, and Kelly Jordan, and Eric Kendall. He wondered what they were doing now. Did they ever wonder what he was doing? He wondered what Tim might have remembered from their hospital meeting, if he remembered anything at all. As much as Scott liked the idea of being a hero and receiving a ticker tape parade for his effort, he decided that it was probably just as well if Tim remembered nothing and everyone decided that it was all just a coincidence. Scott thought about Kent and Eileen Lockhart a lot here, too. Little did they know what they had let into their house so many years ago. What would they think of him now? They would probably just be glad they didn’t have to feed him anymore. He seemed to be eating a lot more food these days. Hey, it wasn’t his fault. He was just hungry all the time.

Scott also wondered if perhaps this sedentary life was making his father a little slow on the uptake. He noticed his father seemed to be baffled more often now. He was especially confused over Scott’s need to spend a lot of time in the bathroom. He tried to explain it logically to his father. It made perfect sense. After all, he had to shower every day, and comb his hair, and wash his face, and look for zits. That was a good hour right there. Then there was shaving every couple of days, and then there was time needed to look for stubble on the off days. Sometimes he would spend an entire afternoon after school in front of the bathroom mirror, massaging and gently slapping his face, trying to stimulate the blood flow and accelerate the hair development. All he wanted for his 17th birthday was a beard. At least a mustache. A _real_ one. Things were starting, but not nearly fast enough. Maybe if he ate a lot of red meat. Well, Scott thought, if his father didn’t understand the bathroom business, at least he was handling all the phone calls pretty well. Scott wanted to talk with his friends, and sometimes they had a lot to say. It was no big deal, and his father got used to that pretty fast. He even started answering the phone in the bunkhouse with, “Hello, this is Scott’s father.”

There were some odd moments that might have betrayed Paul’s lack of common Earth knowledge, but the two got through them unscathed. Scott’s history teacher encouraged parent participation in schoolwork, so she assigned the parents to read their children’s term papers and write up a report. Scott had done a paper on the significance of the Iron Curtain and a divided Europe, and he knew it was going to be a long evening when Paul read the paper and said it was very good—”But what’s the Iron Curtain and why did they make it?”

Seeing a possible short cut through all of this, Scott said, “Dad, it’s okay. I’ll write up a report for you and you can just copy it so it’s in your handwriting.”

Paul eyed his son. “You think I can’t write the report?”

Scott tried diplomacy. “I think it will be a lot easier if I do it.”

“School isn’t about being easy. Explain this to me.”

After a moment to wonder what he had done to deserve this, Scott gave Paul a short course in World War II and its political aftermath. Paul listened attentively, absorbing the details while pondering how these puzzling humans could work so hard and for so long towards self-destruction without actually achieving it. Destructive tendencies were quite common with immature species throughout the galaxy, but these humans were absolute masters at balancing on the edge between self-annihilation and fulfilling their destiny of peace. _That’s_ what someone should write a paper about. But such species peculiarities were for someone else to decipher. He only had the responsibility for deciphering one teenaged human.

When Scott was finished, Paul nodded with appreciation. “You seem to know a lot about this.”

Scott shrugged. “When we were in Madison, Mary told me about all of that. I guess it’s a big issue with her. She said her family—”

“—Your family,” Paul corrected him politely.

Scott laughed to himself. “Yeah. Her part of my family came from around Leipzig, which is in East Germany now, and when the war was over she said she was cut off from a bunch of cousins. And that made her upset because she thinks some of them were persecuted because they had an American cousin in the OSS.” Paul said nothing, and Scott shrugged. “I bet you think we’re pretty screwed up down here, don’t you?”

“Not screwed up,” Paul said. “Just young.” Scott smiled, appreciating his father all over again. If nothing else, Scott thought, his father certainly did have perspective.

All in all, as Scott contemplated their stay in Vacaville, he concluded that life was pretty good. He figured that someday he would look back on this time and say it was the best time he had ever had. If only it could go on forever.

The idyll came to an abrupt end four days after the school year ended. Paul and Scott were in town picking up supplies for the farm. In the drug store, Scott went down to the end of the aisle and tried to decide among three different shaving lotions when something unsettling in the paperback book section caught Paul’s eye. When Paul looked at the book most prominently displayed on the rack, his unsettled feeling turned into genuine distress. He couldn’t believe it.

Scott saw his father’s concentration and wandered over. “What is it?”

Paul indicated the book. Scott looked at it and reached to pick it up. But his hand froze when he saw the title. Emblazoned in white letters across a celestial blue background was, _Conversations with a Starman_ , by Mark Shermin. Under the title was a blurb about “a true story” and a “down-to-earth view of humanity from a galactic observer.”

“Dad,” Scott said, trying hard to shrug this off, “it’s got to be some kind of mistake.”

Paul shook his head seriously. “I wish it were.” He frowned and picked the book up. He paged through the volume, his frown becoming deeper. Scott looked at the rack and noticed a small card stating “Instant Nationwide Bestseller!” hanging in front of other copies of the book.

“It’s quite a book,” said a clerk who appeared from nowhere, startling the two. She smiled and indicated the paperback. “I read it when it first came in. It’s great. I loved it. I’m not sure I believe it’s real, but I saw the guy on TV and he’s pretty convincing.”

“You saw who on TV?” Scott said nervously.

She said, “The author was on a talk show a couple weeks ago. And I saw some interviews in magazines, too.”

Paul looked at her seriously. “What does ‘Instant Nationwide Bestseller’ mean?”

“It means he’s making lots of money. I guess the first printing sold out faster than they could get it on the shelves.”

Paul gave the book to her thoughtfully. “I’ll take it.”

The clerk cheerfully led them to the cash register. “You won’t regret it.”

But Paul already did regret it.

******

Back at the bunkhouse that night, Paul read through the book. He couldn’t believe what Mark had done. Entire sections of their conversations were here, some with short introductions to explain the context. It was true there were no details to give them away—even Scott’s age and gender had been excised—but this was more horrible than any development Paul could imagine.

“Come on, Dad,” Scott said, trying to cheer him up, “it’s not like our names are being broadcast across America. Maybe this will help people get used to the idea that ... we’re here.”

Paul was deep in thought. “We have to leave here tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I have to see Mark Shermin.”

“Do you think it’s safe to go back there?”

“I don’t know. But I have to talk to him.”

Scott didn’t like it, but he accepted it. He idly picked up the book his father had set on the table between them and flipped through the pages.

Paul snapped out of his reverie at this. “No.” He took the book away from Scott. “Don’t read this book.”

Scott had never seen his father so insistent before. “What’s the matter?”

“Scott, you are like no one who’s ever been,” Paul said seriously. “There are things about you, and inside you, that you have to find out through yourself. Humans can read psychology books to learn more about themselves, but you can’t find out about this part of you from the outside,” he said, indicating the book. He looked at the paperback ominously. “I’m afraid if you read this, it’ll interfere with you learning about yourself. You’ll find out little things, but they won’t mean anything to you, because you didn’t learn them from the inside. You’ll never know who you really are.” He looked at his son. “Promise me you’ll never read a copy of this book.”

Scott was spooked. “All right. I promise.” Paul was satisfied with this and got up to start packing.

Scott sat at the table in thought for a short time. “Dad, we all know I’ll know someday, but when? Didn’t you say it was tied somehow with me growing up? Shouldn’t I be starting to know these things by now? I mean, I’ve gone through puberty already. What if I’ve already blown knowing it and I don’t even realize it?”

Paul stopped his work. “Growing up is more than just physical changes. It’s emotional and mental, too. You’re not grown up yet.” He patted his son on the shoulder and smiled. “You’re doing fine.”

Scott wagged his head discontentedly as his father went back to packing. “Fine. Can’t you even give me a hint? A little hint?”

Paul stopped and smiled. “Yes.”

Scott was all ears. “What?”

Paul smiled again. “It’s wonderful.”

Scott frowned and growled under his breath. “Thanks for the big hint.” He got up and started to pack his own belongings.

******

Paul and Scott left the farm the next morning. Paul gave the excuse of “an urgent family problem that just came up.” The couple was sorry to see them go, but wished them well, giving them a standing invitation to drop by again whenever they were in the area.

They stopped for the night in Albany, Oregon. The small motel had an attached diner, and they decided to eat dinner as close to the car as possible. It was past eight when they came in, and the place was empty except for a man sitting alone in a booth with his back to the entrance. They waited by the cash register for the sole waitress on duty to seat them, and they both noticed the cashier was on the phone. Scott thought she seemed to be stalling while they were standing so close, but at the time that did not strike him as unusual. When the waitress got to them, she sat them at the booth nearest the cash register. As they looked over their menus, the cashier renewed her conversation in earnest. Her words drifted towards them.

“... Polly, I think it’s them,” she said in a low, urgent voice. Paul and Scott both perked up at that, looking at her without being obvious about it. “No, not at all. That’s what’s so weird. They don’t look weird.” She glanced up at Paul and Scott and saw them looking at her. She turned away furtively with the phone, but her voice was still quite clear. “I tell you, I think it’s them. ... You know, _them_. The starman and his kid.”

Paul and Scott both reacted to that and looked at her. Something caught Scott’s eye and his stomach sank. Folded front page out and tucked next to the cash register was a supermarket tabloid newspaper with a screaming headline: “$10G REWARD FOR ‘STARMAN’ CAPTURE!” He indicated it to Paul, and Paul reacted with alarm. But as they contemplated getting up quietly the only other customer in the place stood up and revealed himself to be a burly police officer. He went to the cashier’s counter with his check, blocking the way to the exit. Paul and Scott looked at each other, still but very alert.

The cashier continued her conversation with her back to the room, not seeing the policeman waiting with his check. “I know, I know. Just acting as normal as you please, but there’s something about them. I don’t know what it is.” Paul and Scott quietly looked around for another exit, but there was none. “... Yeah, real secret-like, like they don’t want to draw attention to themselves.”

The police officer reacted to that and tapped the woman on the shoulder. “Maybeth, what are you talking about?”

She acknowledged him with relief and whispered into the phone, “Frank’s here, he can take care of this. ‘Bye.” She hung up the phone quickly and faced the police officer. After a quick glance at Paul and Scott, she leaned in to the officer and began to talk to him quietly enough that the two eavesdroppers could not hear.

Paul and Scott were each assessing the situation, calculating their odds of forcing their way past the policeman to their car. He was quite big, and so was his gun. He was listening to the cashier intently, but he had not turned his back to the two. He also had one hand resting ominously on his gun holster. She finished her briefing, and he nodded.

“Let me borrow your phone. I want to get some backup.” He dialed quickly and gave the necessary instructions, and less than a minute later a squad car pulled up right outside Paul and Scott’s booth. They looked at each other, knowing there was no way out. Then the police officer turned towards their booth, squared himself, took a deep breath, and walked out of the diner. The two stared at each other, not daring to move, then glanced out their window and saw the police officer talking with the new arrival, pointing off towards one of the motel’s rooms. The two officers walked off towards the room, and after a moment Paul and Scott started breathing again.

The waitress appeared at their table, notebook in hand. “Decided what you want yet?”

They blinked at each other, then looked down at the long-forgotten menus. They ordered, and the waitress turned to take their order to the kitchen. The cashier signaled her over. “You’ll want to come back here and watch this,” she said quietly. “We may be having some fireworks in a few minutes.” The waitress shook her head and turned towards the kitchen, but then she stopped in her tracks when a shout echoed outside and someone dashed past the diner’s windows. The first police officer was right behind, and everyone inside watched in amazement as the officer tackled the fleeing figure outside Paul and Scott’s window. The waitress and cashier hovered open-mouthed at the edge of Paul and Scott’s table as the four watched the officer subdue and handcuff the figure. Then the second officer appeared, leading a handcuffed man in his 50s towards the squad car. The first officer pulled the wriggling figure to his feet, and the four in the diner could see it was a young man about 20. He was shouting obscenities at the officers, and the first officer was having trouble keeping him under control. The four in the diner looked at each other and breathed a collective sigh of relief, each for different reasons.

Paul and Scott ate a very low-key dinner as a parade of squad cars and police officers moved back and forth in the night outside their window. The cashier watched the proceedings with a keen interest, chatting with the cook who had come out to watch the excitement. The cashier was mostly concerned about how soon she would get the reward and whether or not she would have to split it with the police officers.

Just as Paul and Scott were finishing, the first officer came in and told the cashier that the two men were not who—”or more precisely, what”—she had thought they were, but in fact they were drug dealers with a considerable stash in their room. He thanked her for the tip. He turned to go, then as an afterthought he looked at Paul and Scott and tipped his hat. “Sorry if we disturbed your meal.”

Paul smiled and nodded. “It was interesting. You do that very well.”

The officer smiled with bashful pride. “Well, we try.” He left, and Paul and Scott paid their bill before retiring to their room.

******

Paul and Scott reached the St. Costello campus the next afternoon, and after checking out the area to make sure there were no FSA agents lurking about, Paul went up to Mark’s office at the end of his office hours. He stood out in the empty hall just out of view of the office’s open door. He could hear Mark talking with a female student about her senior project. The conversation ended, and Paul turned away to look at the departmental bulletin board as she walked past. He waited until she was gone, then stepped into Mark’s doorway.

Mark was hunched over a notebook on his desk and didn’t look up. “It’s four o’clock. Come back on Thursday.”

“I think we should talk now,” Paul said.

Mark looked up with surprise, then beamed. “Paul! Come on in! Close the door!” Paul closed the door and sat down in the guest chair. “Boy,” Mark effused, “it’s great to see you! Do you know about the book?”

“Yes,” Paul said seriously.

“I never dreamed it would be so popular,” he said enthusiastically. “I had five thousand copies printed at the college press, and it sold out in two weeks. Two weeks! These megapublishers in New York found out and made me quite an offer. I’ll never have to settle for tuna salad on Saltines at the end of the month again,” he said with a confidential nod. “And I want you to know, I’ve put aside a percentage of the profits for you and Scott. I figured you two haven’t been able to save much money with being on the road and all, so this will help. If sales keep up like this, Scott’ll be able to pay for Harvard out of pocket money!”

Paul watched Mark in stony silence.

Mark rattled on, “Fox was here right after the book went national, of course. He had kittens, but there was nothing he could do. I couldn’t give him any information on where you were, so throwing me in the slammer wouldn’t do any good. It was great to see him again—under these circumstances.

“Paul, You can’t imagine what it’s been like, the letters, the interviews. It’s been crazy. It’s really rather addicting, actually. I’m leaving next week on a 10-state promotional tour. It seems everyone wants a piece of this. I’ve been asked to speak at three conventions, people want to do T-shirts, and I’ve even been contacted by two different production companies about a movie deal!” Mark looked at Paul with triumph and finally noticed his grim reaction. “What’s the matter?”

“You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Mark stopped, struck by Paul’s desolate tone. “What do you mean? There’s nothing in this book that can hurt you.”

“It’s the book that’s hurting us.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The greatest advantage Scott and I had was no one knew about us. Now everyone knows.”

Mark was taken aback by this, but he was not prepared to accept this as a problem. “But no one can tell who you are. The person in the book could be anybody.”

“No, not anybody. Things happen to us sometimes. Things humans can’t do.” Paul shook his head. “This is a terrible thing you’ve done.”

Mark was scrambling. “But, no, it isn’t. Look, look.” He shifted his chair back and pulled out a box from under his desk. In it was a jumble of letters, envelopes, and a large manila envelope. “It isn’t a bad thing. People like you. All this mail is from people who want to meet you, who think you’re great. And this,” he said, opening the manila envelope, “I never expected this.” He emptied the envelope onto the desktop, revealing more letters. He held up a small envelope and gestured with it eagerly. “These are all from people who met you and recognized it was you when they read the book.” He looked at one. “Oh, wait.” He handed it to Paul. “A girl who wrote asked me to give this to Scott if I ever saw him.”

Paul looked at the envelope with silent sadness as Mark watched him, waiting for the slightest glimmer of improvement.

A knock on Mark’s office door startled them and they looked at the door with concern. Then came a young woman’s voice: “Dr. Shermin?”

Mark reacted with relief. “It’s Bonnie, one of my students.” He got up and opened the door as Paul watched cautiously. The student who had just left Mark’s office stood apologetically in the doorway. “I left my umbrella,” she said, indicating the chair Paul was sitting in.

“Oh, come on in,” Mark said and stepped aside.

Paul found the umbrella resting against the chair’s armrest and retrieved it for her. She smiled apologetically to him. “Thanks. I wouldn’t get very far without this.”

Paul smiled. “The rain stopped a little while ago.”

She accepted the umbrella from him with a thoughtful gaze. “I’m sorry, but do I know you from somewhere?”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

She was frowning now as she looked at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but there’s something familiar about you.”

Mark gasped with shock, then said agitatedly, “Oh, Bonnie, he’s one of my old friends from Cornell. I used to have his picture up on my wall with the rest of my intramural basketball team.”

It was a fairly convincing lie, and with it Mark got her out of his office in a hurry without being obvious about it. He sat at his desk, shaken.

“What happened?” Paul asked.

Mark shook his head, the gravity of the situation sinking in. “She recognized your voice.”

Paul frowned. “How?”

Mark didn’t want to admit this. “She transcribed a few of the tapes.”

Paul reacted with alarm. “You let someone else listen to the tapes?”

“I’m sorry, I’m very sorry. It was the only way I could make the deadline I promised you. I never thought she’d meet you ...”

They sat in silence for a moment, then Paul said quietly, “You see how simple it is. Now there’s someone who can identify me as the voice on the tape.”

“But Fox already knows it’s you,” Mark said faintly.

“He’s not the only one looking for me now.” Mark looked at Paul ominously as Paul produced a copy of the tabloid he had picked up: “$10G REWARD FOR ‘STARMAN’ CAPTURE!” Mark closed his eyes and turned away. “On the way here, Scott and I saw people arrested because someone thought they were us. They were criminals, but that could start happening to innocent people someday.”

Mark sat in silence for a long time, the magnitude of what he had done swallowing him up. When he finally spoke, his voice was small and thin. “I’m sorry. All I thought about was that people could learn from you.” He sat for a long moment. “I wanted ... I don’t know what I wanted.” After a moment of thought, he frowned harshly. “I wanted my reputation back. I wanted to be rich, I wanted to be famous, I wanted people to know _I know_.” He didn’t look at Paul. “God, I’ve blown it. I’ve really screwed you over. I didn’t mean to, but I did it. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Yes, there is,” Paul said firmly. “You can tell everyone you made it up.”

Mark rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t. I’d be ruined. Again. My contract with the publishers is based on the book being real. If I recant now, I’d end up broke and in prison.” Paul looked at him steadily. Mark tried to regroup. “Look, it can’t be as bad as we think it is. I mean, it can’t, it just can’t.” He looked at Paul, digging for a way out. “I mean, just ... just never use your sphere again.”

Paul regarded him. “That would be like asking you never to look up at the stars again.”

Mark leaned over his desk with a hand over his eyes, defeated. “God, what have I done?” He looked up blearily at Paul. “What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

“That Scott and I are caught.”

Mark didn’t even want to think about that. “What’s the second worst thing?”

Paul paused solemnly. “That I’d have to go back, and Scott would be alone.”

Mark was surprised by Paul’s reply. “You’d really do that? I mean, leave?”

“If I had to.”

Paul’s steady gaze was cutting Mark in two, and he had to look away. He thought for a moment, then said, “Look, if Scott needs people to stay with, I know—”

“He needs his parents,” Paul said bluntly.

“... So, it looks like it’s either life in a test tube for you or prison for me.” Mark shook his head, trying to come up with something, anything that would work. Nothing appeared.

But Mark refused to give up yet. He told Paul to go “lie low somewhere” while he talked things over with a lawyer. Paul reluctantly gave him Liz Baynes’ personal post office box address as a point of contact, then the two went to the college credit union just before it closed. Mark withdrew $5,000 from his savings and gave it to Paul—”it’ll make me feel better, anyway,” he explained. He promised to get in touch with Paul as soon as he had a plan.

Later, when Paul explained to Scott what Mark had said, Scott was understandably upset. When Paul told him about the $5,000, his attitude improved somewhat, but the money didn’t change the mess they were in.

Paul gave Scott the envelope Mark had given him, and when he opened it he reacted seriously. He turned away and read it privately, then put it in his pocket. “It’s from Kelly Jordan,” he said quietly. “She said she figured it out and she understands.” He said nothing more, and Paul didn’t ask.

They drove into town, where they got a room in a motel and bought dinner groceries in a local market. In the checkout they found two more tabloid newspapers with “starman” stories trumpeted on their front pages. One said rural counties in Maine and Kentucky were setting up nightly “starman” patrols to quell area panic, and the other offered the provocative teaser: “WOMAN CLAIMS: ‘THE “STARMAN” FATHERED MY SON!’—DOCTORS SAY GHASTLY MUTANT BOY SPOKE AT BIRTH OF LIFE ON ALIEN’S HOME PLANET.” The attached photo looked like a baby doll with a bad Wolfman make-up job. Paul stopped Scott when he tried to include the latter issue in their purchase.

In spite of what little bleak humor could be found, they knew they were in a desperate situation. Even the checker in the market had asked them if they knew about the reward and giggled about keeping an eye open for anyone suspicious. In their motel room, they wondered what possible place would be safe enough for them to hide. Keeping ahead of the overworked and understaffed George Fox was one thing; staying out of sight from 240 million junior G-Men was quite another. They needed professional help. Scott decided they had to call Mary Hayden.

With a bag of quarters on top of the pay phone, Scott and Paul held the receiver between them as Scott dialed. The line rang twice, then Hank answered. Trying not to shake, Scott calmly asked for Mary without identifying himself, and they listened as Hank called her to the phone.

“Hello?” Her voice was as strong and reassuring as ever.

“Hello, Grandma Mary?” Scott said deliberately. “This is Tom calling.”

There was only the slightest pause before she replied. “Oh, yes, Tom. It’s been a long time.”

“Grandma Mary, I’m kind of in a lot of trouble.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What should I do?”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I know you may not think it’s very smart right now, but maybe you should just go home.”

“... Home?” Scott and Paul exchanged a puzzled glance.

“Yes. No matter how bad things are, they’ll always take you back. Go home.”

Scott frowned for a moment, then got it. “Yes, I think you’re right. Thanks.”

“Take care of yourself.” She hung up.

Scott replaced the receiver and explained to his father that they were going to Rockland, Wisconsin.

******

Daring only to stop for gas and food, Paul and Scott took turns driving and sleeping on the trip to what they hoped would be a sanctuary. The nightmare continued: As they sat down to lunch at a truck stop in South Dakota, they overheard bits of a conversation in the next booth about aliens and UFOs. Neither the truckers nor the waitress had read Conversations with a Starman, but they knew all the latest “information” going around, especially the “facts” that the alien could change his appearance at will, he was allergic to all dairy products, and that he had no reflection in a mirror. When the waitress came to their booth, they both ordered cheeseburgers—with extra cheese—and large milkshakes. When one of the truckers went to the restroom, Paul made sure to go in after him and be seen looking in the mirror for “something” stuck in his eye.

Once they reached Rockland County, Scott directed Paul to drive down the backroads, remembering all too well that everyone here knew what everyone else was doing. They arrived at the Keitzers’ farm in the light of a beautiful late spring sunset, and at Scott’s direction Paul discreetly parked the car just inside the barn’s open door.

The front porch light came on as they walked towards the house, then the front door opened and Scott could see Irmtraud in the doorway, at her side a half-grown German Shepherd puppy wagging its tail eagerly. Her face lit up when she saw who it was, then gestured eagerly for them to come in. She hugged Scott as he came through the door. “Welcome back! Welcome back!” she said with hushed excitement. The dog was jumping up against Scott, and he laughed as he pushed the dog away. “Now I know why Mitzi didn’t bark,” she said with a laugh. She grew quiet as she looked at Paul.

Scott smiled. “This is my dad.”

Irmtraud looked at Paul shyly, and Scott thought she did not look entirely happy to see him. She extended her hand. “It is very nice to meet you, ... what should I call you?”

Paul took her hand with a smile. “Paul.”

She nodded, then led them into the living room. “Kurt is asleep. He will be very glad to see you in the morning.”

“What’s he doing in bed so early?” Scott asked, looking at his watch.

“The doctor told him he needs rest. His heart,” she said with a vague wave of her hand.

“He’s okay, isn’t he?” Scott said with alarm.

She nodded. “The doctor said it is a precaution, you know, just in case.” They sat in the living room. She winked at Scott. “He is very unruly with the doctor, but I make sure he does what he’s supposed to do.”

“Do I hear Scott?” Kurt’s voice came down the stairs. Kurt appeared, wearing his pajamas and tying his bathrobe belt, smiling broadly at his guests.

Irmtraud frowned. “I’m going to tell the doctor on you.”

“If you do, I’ll make you pay the bill with your egg money.” Even as they frowned at each other, the unmistakable spark of love passed between them. Scott knew everything was all right. Kurt extended his hand to Paul. “My name is Kurt Keitzer. And you are Scott’s father?”

“Yes,” Paul said and shook Kurt’s hand. Scott searched his father’s face carefully, looking for some sign of “getting something” through the handshake. But Scott saw no reaction, and he felt better.

Kurt asked, “Do you have a name you are using?”

“Paul Forrester.”

Kurt sat on the sofa next to Irmi. She frowned at him. “So you are joining us?”

“We have guests,” he argued. “I am not going to be rude.”

Irmtraud stood up. “Well, I will be rude. Everyone is now going to bed,” she announced. Kurt fussed with her, but she won. Ten minutes later, Scott and Paul were preparing for bed in Scott’s old room.

“Dad, is Kurt all right?”

Paul recalled the handshake. “He’s very tired. He needs to learn how to take it easy now. I don’t think he’s ever done that before.”

“But I mean, like, is he in danger? Is there anything you can do to help him?”

Paul shook his head. “No.” Then he smiled slightly. “Just get used to going to bed early.” Scott was only somewhat appeased by that, and he didn’t sleep well.

The next morning at breakfast, they finally had their introductory chat. Kurt explained that Mary had told them to expect the visitors, and they were delighted to have them as house guests for as long as the two wanted to stay. They knew about the book from Evan, who had recognized the alien in question as Scott’s father after hearing about the book from a friend. Scott asked about Evan, and whether he went to prison as he said he might. No, Irmtraud answered, “he didn’t go to prison—he went to work for the State.” She explained that a friend of his in Madison had offered him a position on a highway safety panel just as Evan had announced he wasn’t running for reelection, so he resigned and took the job. He wasn’t enjoying commuting to Madison three days a week very much—but the worst part was that now sometimes he had to wear a suit! He and Stephanie were coming over for dinner that night, so he could tell them all about it.

Scott noticed again that while Irmtraud seemed happy to see them on the outside, there was an underlying hesitation in her manner that he couldn’t ignore. At first he thought it was because perhaps she was worried about the excitement of guests taking a toll on Kurt’s health, but there was more to it than that. He wanted to ask her about it, but he knew he would have to pick his time carefully.

Breakfast ended abruptly when Kurt stood up and announced he was going to do his chores, and Scott and Paul quickly got up and announced they were going to help. Kurt was not enthusiastic about their offer, but their time on the farm in California served them well as they proved quite handy in the workshop. By dinnertime, they had changed the oil in Kurt’s car and pickup truck, rotated the tires on the pickup, fixed the gate on the pen behind the barn, fixed the broken blades on the backup windmill, and cleaned all the tools in his workshop. As Scott and Paul collapsed before dinner, Scott thanked whoever was looking out for them that Kurt had sold the cow and that the only livestock left on the farm was a handful of chickens, which were Irmtraud’s responsibility. Getting up to milk a cow would probably kill him right about now. Scott pondered the death certificate. “Cause of death: Milking a cow.” It certainly would be novel.

Irmtraud kept Paul and Scott upstairs until Evan and Stephanie had arrived for dinner. When she finally came up and led them down to the living room, Evan and Stephanie were sitting on the sofa with their eyes closed and Evan was complaining that he felt stupid. Irmtraud positioned Scott and Paul directly in front of the two, then told them they could open their eyes. Evan reacted with expected surprise and delight at seeing Scott and greeted Paul warmly when Scott introduced them. But Stephanie was staring at Paul uncomfortably.

“Stephanie, this is my dad,” Scott said before he noticed her reaction.

She continued to look at Paul, then glanced away. “I’m sorry. This is just a little too weird for me right now.” She looked at Paul again, then said quietly, “Say something.”

Paul said, “It’s nice to meet you.”

She covered her eyes with her hands. “God, it’s even the same voice!” She stood up. “I’m sorry. I’ll be fine in a few minutes. This is just kind of a shock.” She went into the kitchen and everyone watched her go.

“Oh, I forgot,” Evan said, shaking his head. “She knew the real Paul Forrester.” He turned to Paul. “I’m sorry. She’s having kind of a rough time right now.”

“Is she okay?” Scott asked with concern.

A faint smile touched Evan’s face. “Well, that depends on what time of day it is. In the evening she’s okay, but she’s pretty sick in the morning.”

Scott blinked. “... Morning sickness?” Evan nodded with a smile. “All right!” Scott shouted.

“Yup, and if this first month is an indication of things to come, the next eight are going to take about 10 years.” Evan rolled his eyes. Paul watched this exchange carefully, trying to figure out the reference. Evan spotted Paul’s confusion. “Oh. Morning sickness means she’s pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.”

“That’s wonderful,” Paul said. “But if I’m disturbing her, I can go upstairs.”

Before Evan could answer, Stephanie marched out of the kitchen. “I think I can handle this.” She stopped in front of Paul. “I can just pretend that Paul was the evil twin and you’re the good twin and you’re both named Paul.” Paul didn’t understand what she was saying but went along with it. She shook Paul’s hand. “Hi. I’m Stephanie Pierce. Nice to meet you.” She turned and walked back towards the kitchen. “I think I can handle that ...” She disappeared back into the kitchen.

Scott frowned at Evan. “Was she always like that?”

Evan shook his head. “Hormones are a powerful thing.”

Scott was about to explain about hormones to his dad when he saw Paul was staring after Stephanie. “Dad, what is it?”

Evan looked at Paul with alarm. “Is something the matter?”

Kurt and Irmtraud picked up the concern, but Paul only looked at Evan, then Scott. “Can humans have more than one baby at a time?”

Scott reacted with surprise. “Yeah.”

Evan’s face fell open with shock. “What!? How many?”

Paul still wasn’t too sure about all this. “Two.”

Evan could barely contain himself. “Twins! Twin whats?”

Paul stared at him. “Humans.”

“No no no.” Evan could hardly talk. “... Boys or girls?”

“Girls.”

Evan’s face lit up, then with a mischievous smile he went into the kitchen as Kurt and Irmtraud smiled to each other. After several moments, Stephanie stuck her head out the kitchen door and stared angrily at Paul. “You can tell all that from a handshake?” She shook a threatening finger at him. “Touch me again and you are dead meat, mister,” she stated emphatically and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Paul didn’t know what to make of this. Scott smiled. “Dad, it’s okay. She’s very nice. This is normal. I mean, Mrs. Kilpatrick went through the same thing when she had Cathy and Rebecca. Some women get kind of funny sometimes when they’re pregnant.”

Paul looked towards the kitchen with a frown. “I’m not sure I’d call that funny.”

Things calmed down by dinnertime, and when Stephanie sat down at the table she apologized profusely for her reaction to Paul. She explained that she knew Paul Forrester fairly well—more than she wanted to—and, even though Evan had told her about this situation last Christmas, it wasn’t something she could really prepare herself for.

The dinner conversation gradually turned to Paul and what he could “do.” Evan in particular was fascinated by Paul, and Paul was surprised by how comfortable Evan was with having dinner with someone from another planet. At first he thought it was because Evan had already known Scott well, but he noticed that Evan didn’t go through the initial reticent phase that the others were having, and they had known Scott before as well. He concluded there was something about Evan that made him open to “unusual” circumstances. Maybe that’s why he had been a sheriff.

Evan said, “Obviously you get certain information about people, what, when you touch them?” Paul nodded. Evan asked, “Can you read peoples’ minds?”

“Sometimes,” Paul explained. “I can pick things up, mostly emotions. I can communicate mentally if I try, but it’s usually not appropriate, so I don’t do it.”

Evan appreciated that, then looked at Paul with a playful smile. “Do you have X-ray vision?”

Paul didn’t understand the reference and frowned. “What?”

Evan shook his head. “Never mind. Bad joke. I guess what I’m asking is are your five senses different—better—than ours?”

“Oh, you mean if for instance I can see or hear things that humans can’t hear.”

“Yeah.”

Paul contemplated his answer, then smiled. “Yes, but part of it’s because I pay more attention than you do. Most of the time you know what to expect in your lives, so you take things for granted. But every day I find something new and unexpected. It’s wonderful, but it’s hard sometimes. ... Besides, I don’t know a lot of things that I’m supposed to know, so I have to be careful.”

The others smiled at his answer, and Scott beamed with pride.

Evan’s questions were helping to acclimate Stephanie to who Paul really was, and her journalist’s curiosity was piqued. “So everyone thinks you’re Paul Forrester,” she said finally.

“Yes.”

She shook her head with a knowing smile. “You must have had some amazing times trying to live down what that man’s done.”

Paul nodded with a weary sigh. “It’s been a challenge.”

She smiled, then grew pensive. “You’ve built this form from his DNA or whatever, right?” Stephanie posed. Paul nodded. “Do you have his memories? Do you remember his life?”

Paul shook his head. “Sometimes I have body memories.”

“What do you mean by body memories?”

“Traumatic things that happened to him.”

Stephanie frowned. “How traumatic?” she asked obliquely.

Paul shrugged. “I ‘remembered’ his death.”

She looked at him hesitantly. “Do you ‘remember’ anything about me?” Paul shook his head, and she relaxed. “Thank you, God.”

Evan’s curiosity was now up. “What?”

She smiled impishly at him. “I wasn’t very nice to Paul Forrester once.” She started to laugh deliciously, and her husband frowned.

“What did you do?” Evan asked.

She shook her head. “I know you. You don’t want to know. You definitely don’t want to know.” Evan began to glower. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just,” her impish smile returned, “I was very rude to him once in a real body memory kind of way.”

“I want to know,” Scott said.

Stephanie replied, “It’s not dinner conversation material.”

“We’re done eating,” Scott observed.

She looked at the others. They wanted to hear the story. “All right. Paul was sort of on staff at the paper in Chicago where I interned, and we never liked each other. When I left and went back to Madison, I figured I’d never have to look at him again. Then I was nominated for the Spot News Pulitzer the same year Paul was. I happened to be in Chicago when the announcement came out that Paul had won, and a friend of mine who covered the press conference Paul gave invited me to go the party that Paul’s friends were throwing for him, so I went along, just to see old friends. At the party, Paul made an extremely unnecessary remark in my direction— Scott, I think I already told you this—that the only kind of dark room that women should be allowed in is the kind with a four-poster bed and mirrors on the ceiling.

“I was furious. It was totally uncalled for, and I left. The party was up in one of those big hotels, so I got my camera equipment and found a window at the end of a hallway and took a bunch of pictures. I’d just gotten a new 600-millimeter lens, a real monster, and it was very therapeutic to get out of there and shoot up a couple rolls of film. My friend came out to find me, and we started talking out in this little narrow hallway. And all of a sudden I look up and heading right for us are Paul and his friend Burt Dovicki, another photographer who’s almost as big a jerk as Paul is—I mean, was—”she looked at Paul apologetically—”and Paul comes strutting down the hall and says, ‘So, can’t take the heat, huh?’“

Stephanie smiled lightly. “I swear I didn’t plan this. But circumstances made it impossible for me not to do it. Paul and Burt had to pass right between us, and just as Paul was opposite me, I turned to face him real quickly with my camera— _wham!_ ” She gestured the turn, the camera just below belt level.

Evan groaned. “Oh, God!” Irmtraud looked embarrassed, and Kurt and Scott sat in silent horror.

“So,” Stephanie continued, “he goes down in a lump, Burt’s standing there with his mouth hanging open, my friend’s standing there with his mouth hanging open, and I’m the picture of innocence. I looked down at Paul and I said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did I bump into you?’“ She shrugged innocently. “He never bothered me again.”

Evan was a bit of a lump himself. “I can’t believe you did that.”

She shrugged innocuously. “It sure made my reputation. I’m more famous for that than any photo I ever took.”

Paul was listening intently, but he hadn’t made the connection. Scott leaned over and whispered the punch line in his ear, and he reacted with shock. “I’m glad I don’t remember that!”

Stephanie smiled. “So am I.”

The rest of the evening went by much less dramatically. Evan filled Scott in on the latest down at the sheriff’s office. Kelly Anderson, Evan’s former head deputy, was now sheriff, the first woman sheriff in the county’s history. Kelly had hoped that the head of the county council, Laura Iversen, would give her a little less flak than she had given Evan, thinking her treatment of Evan was because Laura didn’t like men. But she was disappointed when she found herself just as much in the hotseat as her male predecessor had been—it turned out that Laura didn’t like anyone. Kelly was struggling through, however, and she would occasionally call up Evan and ask for advice on office politics matters.

Stephanie showed Scott her newly-published book—sales were doing pretty well, thank you and pointed out the acknowledgments. Included was the usual assortment of family and friends, but one line in particular caught Scott’s eye: “Thank you to Michael and Evelyn Pierce, my parents-in-law I never had a chance to meet, for their wonderful son.” At the end was what Stephanie wanted to show Scott: “And a special thanks goes to Scott, without whose timely advice this book—and my life—would have been much less interesting.”

Over coffee after dinner, the Keitzers and Pierces decided that keeping Paul and Scott at the Keitzers’ farm for their entire stay would be too dangerous—people did drop by without notice, especially on weekends. Evan and Stephanie still rented her old cabin out in the country, which was now a weekend getaway and photo studio. Even though no one dropped by there unexpectedly, it wasn’t the perfect hideout because neighbors kept an eye on the place when Evan and Stephanie weren’t there and any signs of life at the cabin would be noticed. Instead, the group worked out a plan where Paul and Scott would stay at the Keitzers’ Monday through Thursday and on weekends they would stay with the Pierces out at the cabin. The logistics were worked out to everyone’s satisfaction by Kurt’s early bedtime.

When Kurt went up to bed, Evan and Stephanie bid their farewells and headed for Evan’s Cherokee. Scott saw his chance for an answer about Irmtraud’s reticence and followed them out. As the couple fastened their seat belts, Scott leaned on Evan’s open window and asked, “What’s wrong with Irmi? There’s something wrong and no one’s talking about it.”

Evan and Stephanie exchanged a significant look, and Stephanie took Evan’s hand. He said, “Scott, Kurt’s dying.”

Scott shuddered. “But Irmi said he just needs to rest.”

“Kurt didn’t tell her what the doctor really said. His heart’s wearing out. In March the doctor said maybe six months.”

Scott frowned as the news settled in slowly. “Why didn’t he tell Irmi?”

“Because she’d fret and fuss, and there’s nothing she can do except let him enjoy his time ...” Evan’s voice wavered.

“But why’s Irmi acting funny?”

Evan smiled slightly. “Kurt didn’t tell her, but she knows. They’ve been together for 60 years. She had a dream about a month ago—she didn’t tell him—they’ll tell me, but they won’t tell each other ‘cause they don’t want the other to worry—anyway, she had this dream about being at Kurt’s funeral, ... and you and your father were there.”

Scott stared at Evan. “But she’d never met him before.”

“You know how dreams are,” he said, “you can’t see peoples’ faces but you know who they are.”

Scott looked back at the house. “Does Kurt know about this?”

Evan shrugged wisely. “She didn’t tell him, but he knows.”

“What did he say?”

Evan smiled slightly, then imitated Kurt’s accent and devil-may-care shrug: “‘Live fast, die old, and go with schnapps on your breath.’“

Scott wanted to see the humor in that, but this was hitting him harder than he realized. He looked at Evan seriously. “Do you think we should leave?”

“Do you have someplace else to go?”

Scott shook his head. “No.”

Evan looked at the teenager sincerely. “If she wanted you to go, she’d tell you. I’d just enjoy being with Kurt right now, and cut Irmi a lot of slack.”

Evan and Stephanie said their goodbyes and left, but the moment lingered with Scott as he stood in the driveway. He looked at the house. He wished his father could tell the future. Then again, it was just as well. It was better not to see things like that coming. Besides, he tried to reassure himself, doctors aren’t always right and dreams don’t always come true.

******

Paul immediately wrote to Liz Baynes. He told her what was going on and asked her to write to him, care of General Delivery, Dubuque, Iowa, as soon as she heard from Mark Shermin. Then he and Scott settled in to life in their temporary home.

Three weeks of rotating sanctuary passed pleasantly with benefits for everyone involved. Paul and Scott had an excellent hideout that changed enough to avoid boredom. The Keitzers loved having the company, and having people around to watch Kurt and make sure he didn’t work too hard gave Irmtraud precious opportunities to get out of the house. Evan took to Paul like a long-lost brother, delighting in seeing the world anew through his eyes. Stephanie had been banished from her chemical-laden darkroom by her condition, but now she had Paul to do all her developing and print work for her. Paul also learned everything he could about photography from Stephanie, sometimes accompanying her on photo assignments out of the area. Even Stephanie’s playful Labrador retriever, Sparky, was ecstatic to spend time with Scott and did his best to stick with his savior from the moment he arrived to the moment he left.

When Paul wasn’t helping Stephanie during his rotation at the Pierces, he had to spend most of his time staying indoors away from the neighbors’ view. As a result, he became a voracious reader. Kurt and Irmtraud’s books were for the most part German novels and poetry collections, and Paul had no trouble picking up the language. Over dinner, Paul would try out his new language with the delighted native speakers, and by the end of the first week Paul was speaking fluent German with a Meiningen accent.

Evan and Stephanie brought books out to the cabin from their place in town to keep Paul entertained, and in installments Paul read everything they had on their shelves. They had the most eclectic library Paul had encountered, with volumes ranging from criminology texts to history tomes to folklore collections to gun manuals. He read through each with equal interest, gathering froth, horror, hard facts, and tall tales into his body of Earthly knowledge.

Irmtraud assigned Scott to be Kurt’s babysitter. Of course no one admitted this, but everyone knew it. “You are my keeper,” Kurt said to his young companion one bright afternoon as they walked out to look at the fields. “They think I do too much, so you are to keep me on a leash and yank on me if I try to do something.”

“Yeah,” Scott said with a threatening frown, “so don’t give me any trouble.” They laughed together.

Kurt and Scott stopped on the crest of the hill leading to the fields, which curved out between the forested hills and ridges. The fields were planted with clover, and hundreds of bees and butterflies danced over the fields, taking advantage of the bounty the sweet clover blossoms offered. Overhead, clusters of crisp, white clouds made their way east through the sea of the sky, trailing their shadows lazily across the serene countryside.

Kurt looked out at the land he had tended and loved for so many years and nodded. “John Hanson is plowing for me. We get 10 percent of the money for letting him use the land. It is good the land not go to waste. It’s very good soil. Better than back home. Back home, we had mostly dairy cattle because a lot of our farm was up and down,” he said with a vertical gesture to demonstrate the terrain. Scott smiled. “But this land is good, good for fields, and for cows, too.”

“Do you ever want to go back?” Scott asked.

Kurt shook his head. “Sometimes I was homesick. Irmi and I have visited Stephan in Munich several times, but we never went near the frontier. Stephan once took his family to the border where our farm was to show them where he lived with us. He said from the West German side you can just see our old farmhouse.” Kurt smiled slightly. “If the boundary had been another two miles further east, we would have been in the American sector.”

“Would you have stayed in Germany then?”

Kurt bent over and plucked a flowering stem from the new clover, savoring the aroma and then passing it on to Scott. “No. What happened in the war must always be remembered, but there are people who remember it differently. Irmi and I know we were the good guys,” Kurt said with a wink, “but there are others who think we were traitors. Anywhere in Germany would have been dangerous for us after the war. We wrote to our old neighbor outside Meiningen, and he said shortly after your grandmother brought us out of Germany, Soviet soldiers were searching our farm for hidden Nazi resistors.” He looked at Scott knowingly. “That means they were looting the neighborhood. We had left so quickly we didn’t have time to take care of everything, and so the soldiers found the secret compartments in our barn where we hid the Allied airmen, and they found old clothes and uniforms, forged papers, maps. So everyone found out what we had done. Our neighbor told us some people said we should be killed for what we did, either because we helped Americans against the Fatherland or because we didn’t help the Russians. And I tell you, Scott, the two kinds of people who have the longest memories are Nazis and communists, and we are in trouble with both of them, so we never wanted to go back.” He smiled impishly. “No, we stayed here in America where it is safe, where our freedoms are protected by men like George Fox.”

Scott nodded. “He would have been right at home in Nazi Germany.”

Kurt shook his head. “No. I think he wouldn’t have been a good Nazi.”

Scott couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re actually defending Fox? Since when did you start liking him?”

“I don’t like him. I feel about him the way Stephanie felt about Paul Forrester ... except I don’t have a camera.” Scott laughed. “He represents so many things I hated about the Nazis.”

“Like what?”

Kurt thought for a moment to find the right phrase. “He applies his own fears and hatred to what he does under the mask of simply doing his job. This is a most terrible thing to me.”

“So why wouldn’t he make a good Nazi?”

Kurt smiled slightly for a moment. “Mary and Hank came to visit us on my birthday, and she and I talked a lot about Mr. Fox. We both think he has trouble following orders. And you know that’s all Nazis ever did: ‘I was only following orders,’“ he said with mocking innocence. “Besides, I think he has a conscience. I believe he’s blind to the truth about you and your father because he can’t see it, not because he doesn’t want to see it. Do you understand the difference?”

“I think so.”

“I think if there were a way to get the truth into his head—and I think that would take a crowbar—and then I think maybe some dynamite—he would understand.”

Scott had never thought of George Fox in this way, and he contemplated that different perspective for a moment. But he was distracted from his ponderings as a red-tailed hawk floated into view on the wind currents above them. He watched with fascination as the bird of prey was quickly set upon by smaller birds. Rather than fight back, the hawk ignored the harassing birds as best it could and flew off in search of a quieter piece of sky. “I don’t believe that,” Scott said. “They attacked a hawk and actually chased it away.”

Kurt smiled. “They are protecting their nests. They’re showing the hawk he can’t have their children without a fight. You see the way hawks fly. They’re lazy. They like easy things. They go someplace else and find a field mouse who isn’t looking.”

Scott chuckled, then regarded his friend. “Did it make you sad that you didn’t have kids?”

Kurt looked askance at the young man. “What do you mean, we have no children? We have three wonderful sons: Stephan, Evan, and you.”

Scott laughed with appreciation. “If that’s the case,” he said brightly, “then, Dad, can I borrow the car?”

Kurt laughed heartily. “You are shifty like your grandmother.” They shared a laugh and headed home under the peaceful sky.

******

Paul wrote to Liz Baynes two more times, hoping for some sort of word from Mark Shermin, but there was no response. He called her home number three times from a pay phone out of the area, but each time he received the same recording on her answering machine with no indication that she had received any of his messages. This silence was unlike her. He decided that if he didn’t hear from her within another two weeks, he would have to call her office, despite the risks.

As the days without hearing from Liz dragged on, Paul privately became concerned about how long this vigil would last and when—and perhaps if—he and Scott would be able to return to the outside world. His concern was amplified when an intriguing and not entirely good piece of information came from Evan one Friday evening over dinner at the cabin. “I stopped by to see Kelly today and she told me an interesting statistic. According to a county sheriffs newsletter, since your book came out the apprehension rate for divorced fathers who’ve kidnapped their kids is up 22 percent. Apparently people are paying more attention to suspicious single men with children.” Paul reacted thoughtfully to the news, and Evan nodded sympathetically. “You’re not without a paddle yet, but you’re definitely up a creek.”

Paul pondered that one. From the context he thought the phrase meant he was in serious trouble, but if it did, then the phrase didn’t make sense. Was it meant to refer to being stuck, dead in the water? If he were upstream in a creek, even without a paddle he could still float downstream with the current. It would be harder to control the boat’s direction, but he could still travel. The phrase seemed misleading. Maybe it should be “Without a paddle and up a creek and wedged between two boulders.” That would be more appropriate.

The others watched him ruminate, and Evan asked quietly, “What’s the matter?”

“What? Oh, nothing.”

“You were really working on that one,” Evan said. “I could see smoke coming out of your ears.” Paul eyed him. There was nothing in the human head that could produce spontaneous combustion, at least not under anything but the most extreme circumstances. Evan noticed that his comment had only made matters worse and he tried to get out of it gracefully. “Never mind. Forget what I just said. It’s a figure of speech. A joke.”

“Oh,” Paul said thoughtfully. “Like ‘Touch me again and you are dead meat, mister.’“ He repeated Stephanie’s phrase in her exact rhythm and intonation, and for a moment the husband and wife looked at him with surprise. Then Stephanie laughed.

“Yes,” she said, “it’s a joke. A pretty bad one, but a joke.”

Paul nodded. That’s what he thought. “But what does the smoke coming out of your ears mean?”

Evan explained, “It means your brain is working so hard it’s like a machine that’s on overload and it catches fire.”

Paul nodded. That made sense, and it was a funny image. He smiled and filed the two new references away.

******

One Friday night, Scott and Paul joined Evan and Stephanie in preparing a spaghetti dinner. Lively in the making and partaking, the meal was the stuff of which favorite stories that last a lifetime are made. It began quietly while Scott was in charge of stirring the sauce. He had been reading a book on juggling and he decided to demonstrate what he had learned with apples from the refrigerator. He knew he had a good audience when one of the apples got away from him and landed in the sauce, splattering the tomatoey mess all over the stove—but the others only laughed. After Scott fished out the apple and Evan sponged up the splatters, Paul gave the apples a try under Scott’s supervision, and he had the basic toss down in a few minutes.

When Evan decided he wanted to give juggling a try, Stephanie wisely substituted three of Sparky’s rubber chase balls for the apples. But Evan dropped the balls more often than he caught them, and Sparky thought this was a great new variation on catch and joined in, running off with the balls as they hit the floor. Stephanie quickly banished Evan and Sparky from the house before their new act started breaking dishes. But as the group was heading for the door, Paul cast a playful eye on the table already set for dinner, and before Stephanie could stop him Paul picked up the three small loaves of Italian bread and began tossing them in the air with impressive dexterity. Stephanie gave up trying to keep things under control and got her camera, capturing the spontaneous show for posterity. Each “act” had its moment of glory before the camera, Scott even posing with one of his apples dangling precariously above the still-cooking sauce. A quick vote for best performance was taken during dinner, and the unanimous choice for first prize was Sparky, who had stolen the show—and all of the rubber balls. The triumphant victor got to lick all the plates and the sauce pan.

After the dishes were done, the group adjourned to the cabin’s front porch. They turned off the lights to keep the bugs away, and they sat in silent appreciation of the world’s wonders. A canopy of stars hung above them, and the roaring chorus of frogs, crickets, and nightbirds filled the night with music sweeter than any melody man could create.

Evan sighed. “This is the way life should be.” He smiled and put his arm around Stephanie. “A good wife, good friends, a wonderful meal, a beautiful night. And nothing to do but enjoy it all.”

She smiled mischievously at Evan, then in little voices said, “‘Daddy, I want a glass of water.’ ‘Yeah, me, too.’“

Evan groaned and laughed. “Puh- _lease_.” He settled back, then looked at Paul. “How many stars are there in the universe?”

“More than anyone can count.”

“Good. That’s the way it should be.”

“Don’t you ever miss it?” Stephanie asked. “Being up there?”

“Sometimes,” Paul said. “I miss the freedom.” Paul looked up at the sky. “Sometimes, when I’m asleep, I think I’m home. But then I wake up, and I’m in this strange body,” he said, flexing his hands as he looked at them like unnatural appendages. They all contemplated that for a moment, and Paul smiled at the couple. “I wish more humans were like you.”

“What do you mean?” Stephanie asked.

“You accept what you don’t understand. People are afraid of the idea of me being here, and you’re not.”

“Well,” Evan said, “they’re dealing with the hype, and we’re dealing with the people. That’s two different things. Most people, if you cut through the nonsense and explain the truth to them, they’ll get it and be okay with it. But with something like this, there’s so much garbage floating around that it’s hard to see what’s really happening.”

“But why is there so much garbage?” Paul asked.

Stephanie explained, “This may not make sense to you, Paul, but fear sells newspapers. If a writer or reporter can play up an angle and stay within the bounds of the truth, they’ll do it. And particularly with the tabloids, they don’t even worry about the truth. The more outlandish something is, the better. This story is a gold mine for them.”

Evan nodded, then smiled. “Besides, we have an unfair advantage over everyone else. We know you. I mean, I already knew how weird Scott was before I knew why.” Scott chuckled. “And any dad of Scott’s is a dad of mine.”

Paul did a double take. He had never heard of this strange Earth kinship custom before.

Evan saw his reaction and shook his head. “It’s just an expression. ‘Any friend of—’ Wait a minute! I forgot something!” Evan got up and went into the house. “I got you a present. I’ve noticed you’ve been having trouble with expressions.”

Paul frowned at that. He thought his face worked quite well.

Evan came back out and handed something to Paul. “You can’t see it very well in the dark, but it’s a book. It’s a dictionary of American colloquial speech. Slang.”

Paul paged through the paperback, although it was too dark to read. This would be extremely helpful in avoiding a lot of confusion. “Thank you.” He smiled. “You’re a good friend, Evan.”

Evan shrugged. “Thanks. I try.” He chuckled ruefully. “And let’s face it, you need all the friends you can get.”

The poignant truth of his statement hung with them, but they were soon lulled by the beauty of the night. After a while they retired, but the night was too beautiful to sleep through. Paul and Scott lay on their beds in the guest room and listened to the night pour in through the windows. They could hear Evan and Stephanie talking softly in their room. Their gentle laughter from some quiet joke rippled into the room.

Paul looked over at his son. “Scott?”

“Yeah?”

“Is that what being married is like?”

“Yeah, it can be.”

“I like it.”

They both smiled in the sweet darkness.

******

Another week went by with no word from either Liz Baynes or Mark Shermin, and the group was facing a tough situation. Stephan Hochmüller’s daughter, Greta, was going to be spending a year at an American college, and she was supposed to stay with the Keitzers over the summer to adapt to life in the United States. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that Paul and Scott might be around so long, and they hadn’t made alternate plans. Having the two stay out at Stephanie’s cabin wouldn’t work unless she stayed out there with them all the time to explain the signs of life. Staying at Evan and Stephanie’s home in Rockland was out of the question. They lived too close to the sheriff’s office to hide anyone successfully, and Kelly would often drop by their house when she knew Evan was in. They couldn’t go to the Haydens’ in Madison. Kurt and Irmtraud knew Greta was a trustworthy girl, so they decided they had to risk her knowing Paul and Scott were there without going into too many details.

When Paul and Scott arrived at the Keitzers with Evan that Sunday night, Greta was chatting with Irmtraud in the living room. When Scott came in, he stopped in his tracks. She was unbelievably, unquestionably, breathtakingly, the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen in his entire life. Blonde, statuesque, and lithe, she rose to greet him as they were introduced.

“So,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “I finally meet my mysterious younger brother.”

The words rolled off her tongue in the most bewitching accent Scott had ever heard. It took him a moment to realize she’d finished speaking. “Ah, yeah.” It was love. No doubt about it, it was definitely love.

Irmtraud explained to the others that Greta knew they were staying out of sight for a while, and she had agreed to help keep it secret. Evan had to leave, so Paul and Scott sat down to get acquainted with the new guest.

If Scott had been quizzed at the end of the conversation about what was said, he would have flunked in a big way. He did catch something about Greta studying her junior year at the University of Chicago, and she did mention her major, but it eluded him. All Scott knew when they retired for the evening later was that he had never met anyone like her before and he had never, _ever_ , felt so much like a dorky kid in his entire life. She was so cosmopolitan, and gorgeous, and self-assured, and gorgeous, and ... gorgeous. Well, he would be 17 in August. She was probably 20. She probably had a boyfriend back home. Maybe five or six. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she had latched onto that joke about him being her younger brother. This was terrible. Life was totally unfair.

Scott tried to gather ammunition to help him impress Greta, but it was a lost cause from the word go. For the sake of being polite, Scott went to his father first for advice, but Paul was no help in the fine points of teenage courtship rituals. Paul suggested Scott talk to Evan, and Evan was happy to share what limited knowledge he had. However, he pointed out that Scott didn’t stand a chance because “she’s even out of my class, kiddo.” Scott was reduced to watching Greta from a lovelorn distance, wondering if there was somebody out there, somewhere, somehow, someday. Scott found his only consolation in the fact that at least this was one of his life’s misfortunes that wasn’t George Fox’s fault.

******

An incurable journalist, Stephanie had decided that having a file of starman newspaper clippings might come in handy, so she had Evan buy every newspaper that touted related stories during his trips to Madison. He protested, saying it was embarrassing to buy tabloids, especially in such great numbers, but she insisted.

The trove proved startling in its bulk. Virtually every tabloid had some sort of spurious starman story, and there were even articles in several mainstream newspapers, mostly incredulous pieces about the raging furor.

One tabloid in particular, the Midnight Press, seemed to have taken this on as its own personal cause célèbre. It was the paper which had previously offered the $10,000 reward for the alien’s capture, but now the reward was up to $25,000. Stephanie didn’t like this development. “This may mean trouble,” she told Paul as they went over the clip file one night. “Reporters don’t have to follow the same rules as federal agents. And some of the people who work for these rags don’t bother with little things like obeying the law.”

After going over the clip file, Paul understood what Stephanie had said about the newspapers exploiting the story for their own purposes. There was so much fear in these stories, and yet there was virtually nothing related to the book. Paul couldn’t figure out why this was happening. Paul asked her, “Do they understand they’re hurting people with their stories?”

“Probably. But I’m not sure they care.”

“Don’t people get angry when they’re treated this way?”

“Some do. Every once in a while someone sues a paper and wins, but it takes a lot of time and money. Most people just have to put up with it.” She frowned. “That’s the downside of freedom of the press.”

“Evan said if you explain the truth, most people will be okay with it. Why don’t people understand the book is the truth? And why do they buy the newspapers when they know they’re hurting people?”

She smiled. “Why people do what they do is the question of the ages. If we were as good as we should be, all those papers would be out of business, there’d be no lawyers, no policemen, no wars, no poverty. We’d be pretty hard to recognize.”

Paul smiled. “It sounds wonderful.”

She appreciated him for a moment, then laughed. “You are so adorable! I tell you, if I hadn’t met Evan first, ... Nah. I thought he was complicated, but you take the cake.”

Paul frowned. “I’m too unusual to be believed?”

“What?”

“You said I took the cake.”

She scratched her head. “Is that what ‘take the cake’ means?”

“That’s what the book Evan gave me said.”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure that was such a good idea. What I meant was you win the prize.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

She laughed. “You’re welcome. You know, you’ve been so good for Evan. He’s really opened up around you. Do you always have that kind of effect on people?”

“If that happens, it’s not because of me,” Paul said. “People change because they want to. If I affect people,” he searched for a moment for the right word, “I’m an excuse.” She smiled and nodded as he spoke. “Everyone I’ve met has chosen their life to be that way, even if they don’t think so. It’s up to them to make the choice to change.”

******

George Fox was miserable. His life had disintegrated into a joke. For nearly 18 years, he had been on a virtual one-man quest to save the Earth from the greatest threat it had ever faced, and for his trouble he had been laughed at behind his back, forced to accept a shrinking budget and reluctant support, railroaded into unbearable compromises, and threatened more than once with being locked out of the Federal Security Agency if he didn’t work on other cases. His reputation within the agency had deteriorated to the point where sometimes he couldn’t even walk to the water cooler without someone turning away and snickering.

One anonymous prankster had even “kindly” left a copy of the Midnight Press on his desk. Circled in red was the headline about the reward for the alien’s capture and scribbled next to it in large red letters was: “George—How about a bonus?” The only saving grace, as minuscule as it was, was that these newspaper degenerates seemed content with their ridiculous fabrications.

As much as George hated this, at least he had gotten used to it over the years. However, things had begun unraveling in recent months. General Wade, who had watched over 617W-A with a paternalistic disinterest, had retired in March. His successor, General Josiah Gates, was a “bottom line” man who was more concerned about 617W-A’s budget than its importance to the planet, and after Gates came in it seemed that George had daily skirmishes over nickels and dimes.

But things had become much worse while George was away from the office two weeks ago. A routine computer check had turned up Scott Hayden’s new drivers license with an address in Vacaville, California. He had flown out there and discovered that, once again, he was too late. He interviewed the couple on the farm and talked with people in town and at the high school. Once again he had gotten lots of information and once again it was useless. They had disappeared without a trace one more time. He came back to the office feeling more tired than he had ever felt in his life.

But people seemed to be looking at him strangely at his return. No more snickers or stupid jokes. Now everyone was turning away in hushed tones.

The explanation for the change came the next day when he was called into General Gates’s staff meeting and told to back off on the case until things cooled down. General Gates reported that although the FSA was never mentioned in Shermin’s book as the agency pursuing the starman, some readers had made the connection and the agency had become the target of a letter writing campaign from “concerned citizens” around the country asking why their tax dollars were being used to persecute so “honorable a being.” It was still a small group, but in the current climate such a thing could get out of hand in a hurry.

But what was worse than bad press, General Gates declared, was the FSA was now a laughingstock within the federal government. The agency had experienced some unforeseen difficulties in other projects, and it was now seriously over budget—and Gates’s superiors were taking a lot of heat. He said all the military budgets were once again being revised downward, and a popular joke around Washington said the FSA was going to be dissolved and merged with “the other day care programs.” Several members of Congress had started referring to them as the Foolish Security Agency, and one more plainspoken member, who was unfortunately on the Appropriations Committee, announced that FSA stood for something Gates didn’t want to repeat in front of the female members of his staff.

General Gates said his superiors were trying to get out of this mess by rethinking various “unproductive” projects, especially 617W-A. One had commented that this “alleged alien” had been in the country for more than two years and no perceived threat had developed. Others were beginning to question certain facts about the case, particularly George’s claims about the alien’s powers. Certain generals had previously expressed an interest in exploiting Forrester’s abilities, but one was now saying it wasn’t worth the time and effort to chase someone who could “turn a pink wedding dress white.” One of Gates’s superiors even went so far as to declare this alien seemed “downright suburban”—and suggested he was merely a “spoon-bending psychic” sent over by the Soviets to test the Americans’ internal security mechanisms. They were thinking that perhaps, for the good of the agency, the project could be put on hold indefinitely.

George tried to interrupt, saying this project was being turned into a sacrificial lamb to cover their own financial blundering, but General Gates cut him off. Gates said he had convinced his superiors to keep the case active for a little while longer—”out of respect for your time and dedication, George”—but things were going to be handled differently now.

George had to sit there in humiliated silence in front of General Gates’s impassive officers and hear the general pass judgment: Until further notice, Project 617W-A would be limited to one field operative—George himself—and travel was to be conducted only at the general’s express command. Wiretaps could stay in place for the moment, but monitoring them would become a routine function of the local agents only when they were available. And, above all, there were to be no, _absolutely no_ , public demonstrations of any kind. He sent George away, saying he should be grateful that he hadn’t been identified by name in the book, or else he might have become too great a liability for the agency.

As George sat at his desk, he popped another antacid in his mouth, although he knew it would do no more good than the last 12 he had already taken that morning. His angina was back, although the doctor had told him this time it was a symptom of stress. Stress! Ha! That was a vicious understatement. For 18 years, he had dedicated himself to this case. No one knew the sacrifices he had made. They should have been treating him like a hero. Why was it that no one could see the terrible danger they were in, with an alien creature from some unknown, technologically superior planet roaming freely around the country? How could everyone be so blind to the potential for disaster? Didn’t they understand that in the twinkling of an eye life as they knew it could be lost forever? It was his curse to be another Cassandra, someone who saw the truth all too clearly and yet was doomed to be not believed. True, there were some people who had given him support, but only grudgingly. It had been an uphill battle all the way. He had found the strength to keep going in the realization that someday he would be vindicated. But now, after all this time, the cruelest irony of all had been dealt to George—his nemesis was being touted as an idol in some circles, and George was one step away from oblivion. His life was crumbling around him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He laughed bitterly to himself. Perhaps he should have written his own book first and told the true story. That certainly would have rearranged public opinion. He didn’t even want to think about the monetary possibilities that might have produced. But it was all too late. The battle was about to be lost. Only a daring assault would save the planet now.

******

Jana Parker sat nervously outside the managing editor’s office in the Midnight Press headquarters. She looked around at the bustling, prosperous nerve center, trying to be as invisible as possible. The bright, modern place certainly wasn’t what she expected. Shouldn’t the home of sleazemongers look a little sleazier? Not that she was entitled to her patronizing attitude. She had written for them for years under the alias Eugenie St. Clair, although she had never had any personal contact with the staff other than phone calls from the managing editor and checks in the mail. That was part of the deal. If her editor at the Detroit Post had gotten one whiff of her occasional moonlighting for a tabloid, she would have been out on the street faster than you could say “media harlot.” But when she had gotten that phone call the other night, with a promise of $10,000 a month for the duration of her assignment, she knew she couldn’t say no. She called in the next morning with a well-rehearsed sob story about her mother being in a terrible accident at home and how she needed to take extended time off without pay to go take care of her mother for the months necessary for her recovery. She knew it would work, because her editor had recently been through a similar crisis with his daughter. With paternal tenderness, he wished her well and told her to check in in a month so he would know when to expect her back. She was on the plane an hour later.

A good-looking man with sandy hair approached the managing editor’s receptionist, then hesitated when he saw Jana sitting nearby. They acknowledged each other without actually looking at each other, and he sat in a chair away from her. She smiled to herself. Well, well, another media harlot. The receptionist sent the message through the intercom that everyone was here, and she showed them into the office.

The managing editor warmly welcomed the two into his beautiful office, and introduced the two to each other as Eugenie St. Clair and Peter Harker. Each silently acknowledged the public use of their pseudonyms—and what that meant—and nothing was said about it.

“I have the assignment of a lifetime for you two,” the editor said with relish as he sat on the edge of his splendid rosewood desk. “You two have been handpicked out of all our writers because of your investigative prowess. And you both know by how much we’re paying that we want results.”

“What’s the story?” Peter asked.

“I want you to find the starman.”

The reporters recoiled with surprise. “Are you serious?” she said.

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“But you don’t think any of it’s real, do you?” Peter scoffed.

“You bet I do.” The editor held up a folder. “We did a background check on Mark Shermin. He’s totally legitimate. He used to be with SETI, the Search for Extra Terrestrial Intelligence, but 18 years ago he was fired very abruptly with no explanation. There’s quite a security blanket over his SETI activities, but we do know that something unusual happened, and as a result of whatever it was, he got axed.” He paused, letting this sink in. “And he was very talkative about this whole book thing until a couple weeks ago. Then he canceled all his speaking engagements and he’s now forwarding inquiries to his lawyer in Tacoma.”

“Has he pulled the book off the shelves?” she asked.

“No,” the editor said. “He can’t, although my sources say he sounded out the publishers about it and they gave him a vehement ‘no.’“

“Has he dropped out of sight?” Peter asked, intrigued.

“No. This doesn’t look like a Salman Rushdie deal. He’s just not talking to anyone anymore.” The editor smiled, playing with the line to make sure the hook was thoroughly set in his reporters. “And we know who his superior from the Federal Security Agency was. A man by the name of George Fox. An interesting thing about George Fox: There were some legislative committee meetings 18 years ago this fall looking into a strange meteor that fell to earth in northern Wisconsin and caused a major forest fire, and this George Fox, in the face of withering criticism, refused to retract his earlier statements that the government was doing a major hush-up job and that the meteor was in fact a spacecraft and that an alien had been present.” The two reporters leaned in, enraptured. The editor smiled. He had them.

“Where’s this George Fox now?” she asked, beginning to delight in the intrigue of becoming Eugenie St. Clair for an extended assignment.

“He’s still with the FSA, but he’s been dropped a few notches for not being a team player.”

“I’m sure all his work is designated top secret,” Peter said.

The editor smiled. He held up a small piece of paper. “Don’t worry about that. You have a secret weapon.” He gave the paper to Peter, then became deadly serious. “Before I send you two out, there’s a very important matter I need to make clear to you. This story is spearheading a shift in our paper’s focus. We’re going into more serious and in-depth investigative pieces. That means more good old fashioned hard work from now on. As I’m sure you both know, we’ve just come through two very messy lawsuits. They cost us a lot of money, but what’s more important is they cost us a lot of energy and a lot of advertisers. Our publisher is committed to making sure we can’t become a target like that again.

“This starman story is going to show everyone that we’re back with a vengeance. The starman is our number one priority. We’re committed to getting the whole story, no matter how long it takes. It’s better if it doesn’t take so long, but you understand what I’m saying. There’s a real story here, and we want it. I don’t want anything in your work that can’t be verified. No speculation, no filling in the blank spots with conjecture, no anonymous witnesses that you can’t give me names for. I want real reporting on this; that’s why I brought you two in.

“One minor point,” the editor continued. “I think competition between reporters is a healthy thing, but on this piece I want you two working together, not against each other. There’s too much ground to cover, and I don’t want you duplicating efforts. There are no bonuses for big breakthroughs on this one, so don’t try to outscoop each other. Remember: no secrets,” he said firmly, and the two reporters obediently nodded to each other.

“The other major issue is the National Weekly News. Vance has been on our tails for the last year or so, trying to beat us to our own stories. Of course we can’t prove it, but we know he’s responsible for at least one of the lawsuits. And he wants this starman thing so bad I think he has wet dreams about it. Unfortunately, he knows this is my priority, so he’s making it his. I want both of you to be extremely careful about what you do out there. Don’t tell anyone what you’re working on; if possible, leave the Midnight Press out of it. If you need people to call information in, have them use the 800 number I’m going to give you; it has a scrambler on it.”

Both Peter and Eugenie reacted with surprise. “Is it that bad?” she asked.

“It’s probably worse than that bad,” the editor said. “I wouldn’t put it past Vance to attempt bribing someone inside this organization. We’ve had minor leaks in the past, nothing as serious as this could be. We haven’t found the culprit, but we do have a virtually airtight security system on our computer now. No one can access the story files without being identified by name, department, and a story assignment code number which is known only by the editors and reporters on the story. But don’t trust anyone. Pretend you’re a CIA mole inside the KGB. The only people who know what you’re doing, and the only people you can discuss this story with, are me and ...,” with a slight smile he pointed at the piece of paper in Peter’s hand, “... your secret weapon.”

******

Peter and Eugenie found their secret weapon in a dingy and seemingly-abandoned warehouse in a crummy part of town. Squirreled away in an upper floor was a sprawling office with an astonishing array of computer and telephone equipment. Enthroned in the middle of the complex was an unsightly fellow with dirty hair, patched-together glasses, wrinkled clothes, and an extra 150 pounds. Scattered around him was a cache of notebooks, coffee cups, fast food wrappers and pizza boxes.

“No names,” he said with a regal wave of his hand. “I know yours are fake and you don’t need to know mine. Just call me by my code name: ‘Deep Poke.’“ He laughed heartily, sending his abundant flesh into jiggling ripples. “What’ve you got?”

“We need case information for an agent in the Federal Security Agency,” Peter said.

Deep Poke rubbed his ample chin. “The FSA. Too bad. I haven’t cracked all their codes yet. But, there’s always a way. What’s the agent’s name?”

“George Fox,” Eugenie said.

“Well, let’s see what we can take a peek at,” Deep Poke said and turned to his keyboard. Eugenie watched him, wondering why he seemed familiar. Then she got it. Take off the glasses and put a tail on him and he would be a dead ringer for Jabba the Hutt.

Within a minute, something useful came up on the screen. “Okay. His personnel file says he’s still on duty, ... um, a career man. Been in 32 years.” He glanced through the file. “Not much to go on here. Let me dig a little and call you when I get something.”

The call came at 4 a.m., and Peter and Eugenie were angry at being pulled out of their hotel rooms for something that certainly could wait until daylight.

They found Deep Poke in the same spot, looking as if he had not moved since the previous afternoon. “This better be good,” Peter grumbled angrily.

Deep Poke gave them a Mae West fluff of his oily hair. “‘Goodness has nothing to do with it, dearie.’“ He chuckled as the two reporters exchanged a glance of disapproval. “Now, before we begin, I’d like to point something out to you. I know you’re working on the starman story, and I know you both think it’s a bunch of hogwash. All reporters are by nature skeptics. It’s in your DNA. You can’t help it. But something interesting came up when I was researching your George Fox. Most people think ‘Top Secret’ is the highest security classification in the federal government. ‘Tain’t so. The level above ‘Top Secret’ has been given the delightfully innocuous-sounding moniker of ‘Sensitive.’ This will mean more to you in a moment.” The two grumpy and skeptical reporters weren’t in the mood for this, but they had little choice. They were at Deep Poke’s mercy and they knew it.

Deep Poke continued, “Now, ideally we’d like to get into Fox’s case files to see what the old boy’s been up to. But that computer system has very elegant security, and I haven’t been able to get in all the way. Yet. But you two will probably be very interested to learn that I have gotten into case directories far enough to know that every current case file George Fox is working on is classified ‘Sensitive.’“ Peter and Eugenie tried not to give their tiresome host the satisfaction of seeing them react, but this was an unexpected piece of news. They looked at each other as Deep Poke smiled. “I played around a bit and so far I’ve only been able to find seven people in the entire gargantuan federal government who have clearance to get into those files.” He counted them off on his stubby fingers with evident satisfaction: “George Fox, Fox’s assistant Ben Wylie, General Josiah Gates, who seems to be Fox’s superior, Gates’s adjutant Lt. Willa Blake, the director of the Federal Security Agency, the Secretary of Defense, and the President. And that’s it.” He shrugged. “There may be more, but I can’t play for too long. I have to get in and out of their system fast so I don’t get caught. Now, this hush-hush stuff may just be a coincidence, or a mistake. We all know Uncle Sam sometimes makes incredible errors in judgment. Look at J. Edgar Hoover’s obsession with Martin Luther King. But this is shaping up to be rather interesting, you will admit.”

“What good is all that if you can’t get into the files?” Peter asked.

“‘Ah,’“ Deep Poke said, mimicking a slimy German accent, “‘ve have our vays to make ze computer talk.’“ He brought up a data file on the screen as Peter and Eugenie delicately gathered around, trying to see the screen without getting too close to their host. “I can’t tell you what George Fox has been doing, but I can show you where he’s been doing it. The accounting files have reimbursement figures for all his travels.” The two reporters leaned in towards the screen in fascination, losing their disdain for this indecorous secret weapon.

“Okay. His travels break down into two categories: before and after September 1986. Before he gets around, but not much. And the cases are paid for by different budgets. But after September 1986, he puts on more miles than I’ve got on my ‘62 Buick. Look at the pattern: Seattle; Tacoma; LA with travel expense receipts into the Mohave Desert; LA again with receipts to Desert Wells, Arizona; Phoenix; LA again; San Francisco three times; LA a couple times; Reno. You get the idea. He’s got a classic pattern of chasing somebody up and down the West Coast. Keep in mind, the local boys don’t handle it. He goes himself, every single time. He’s spent more time on the road than he has at home. But, soft, we have an aberration in this travel pattern.”

“Yes,” Eugenie said, mesmerized by the secret information before her. “Madison, Wisconsin.”

“Four times, no less,” Deep Poke continued. “October 1986, October 1988, twice last December.” He pushed a few keys, and another screenful of information appeared. “And look at his car mileage receipts: first trip, 56 miles, second trip, 52 miles, third trip 137 miles, fourth trip 131 miles. On the first trip he was there for two days, eight days the second time, one day each the third and fourth trips. So, just taking an educated guess, his first trip to Madison, he was traveling around finding people. His second trip, he knew exactly where he was going. That’s why he was there longer but had fewer miles. Third and fourth trips, he went someplace out of town.”

“Fascinating,” Peter marveled.

“And Wisconsin was where this whole thing started,” Eugenie added.

“So obviously there’s something in Madison worth pursuing,” Deep Poke concluded. “And it isn’t going anywhere.”

“But what about his trip to Denver?” Peter asked, looking at the screen.

Deep Poke shook his head. “One trip, one day, and he never goes back. Probably a red herring. Now,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “to find out where he drove on those two last trips out of Madison, you can figure he flew in there because it was the closest FSA office and he could pick up backup. In the region, the FSA has branch offices in Madison, Milwaukee, Chicago, Springfield, Des Moines, and St. Paul. So take a map, divide the longest mileage report in two—roughly 69 miles—and draw a circle at 69 miles around Madison, and stay away from areas that are closer to the other FSA offices.”

Eugenie and Peter were now developing a genuine affection for their slovenly companion.

Deep Poke glistened with pride. “The icing on the cake, lady and gentleman, is _every piece of traveling_ George Fox does after September 1986 is budgeted to one case.” He pointed at the screen. “Project 617W-A. I dug around in their accounting archives, and I can find no reference to Project 617W-A before September 1986. But,” he smiled triumphantly, “I found a Project 617W. Its accounting records start in November 1971 and end in July 1976, with most of the activity during the week of the 11th through the 17th of November ‘71, with a multimillion dollar expense account trail from Ashland, Wisconsin to Winslow, Arizona over the course of four days, including helicopters, sophisticated monitoring equipment, portable scientific labs with tons of Moon launch-type isolation equipment, and,” he said with a snappy salute, “the United States Army.” He crossed his arms. “Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Eugenie said with an appreciative laugh and indicated the computer. “Can you book us on the next flight to Madison?”

******

By Thursday, Paul was concerned. It wasn’t like Liz Baynes to be out of touch for so long, so despite misgivings he had to call her office. Kurt drove him to Dubuque, where he found an out-of-the-way phone booth near the main post office. The same message was on her answering machine at her home phone, so he called her office. When he asked the magazine’s receptionist for Liz, he was connected with someone else.

“Hello, this is Lauren Masterson.”

“I’d like to speak with Liz Baynes, please.”

“I’m sorry, she’s out of the country for a while. Can I help you?”

“Out of the country! Where is she?”

“She’s in West Germany,” Lauren said, a hint of suspicion in her voice. “Can I help you?”

Paul wasn’t sure what to say. “... She’s got some mail for me, and—”

“Is this Paul?” Lauren asked brightly.

“... Yes.”

“Hi! You probably don’t remember me. Lauren? I came on staff here the day you took the Managua assignment, which of course you didn’t go on. Liz introduced us in the hallway.”

“Oh, ah, Lauren. Yes.”

“Yeah,” she sounded flattered and giddy. “Liz said you might call. She got sent over to West Berlin without a lot of warning, and she asked me to hold your mail for you. Would you like me to forward it?”

“Yes, please.”

Paul could hear her scrounging for a pencil and paper. “Okay, what’s the address?”

“General Delivery, Dubuque, Iowa.”

“Dubuque?” Disbelief rang in her voice. “Well, whatever. Okay. I’ll drop this in the mail to you today. So, when are you coming back to Chicago?”

“Not soon enough,” he said, trying a little of the Paul Forrester charm for someone who obviously expected it.

She giggled. “Okay, well, look, I have to go.” Her voice dropped into a soft, private register. “Call me when you get in, okay? I’d like to hear about some of your adventures sometime.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said. He hung up and joined Kurt in the car.

“So?” the old man asked.

Paul shrugged. “She’ll send the mail.” He didn’t know what it was, but there was something nagging him. He couldn’t put it out of his mind as they drove away.

Kurt pulled in at a gas station before they left town, and Paul took out his wallet. “Let me pay for your gas.”

The old man frowned. “You think I am a charity case?”

“I think you’re a generous man, and that’s why you let other people be generous to you.”

Kurt laughed. “You are shifty like Scott’s grandmother!” He took Paul’s offered wallet as Paul got out of the car and filled the tank. When they were done and Kurt had returned Paul’s wallet, Kurt said as he pulled the car out onto the road, “I see Friday is your birthday.” Paul eyed him with confusion. Kurt said, “It says so on your driver’s license.”

“Oh. That’s Paul Forrester’s birthday.”

“You’re Paul Forrester, aren’t you?” There was a playful edge to Kurt’s voice that didn’t escape Paul. “If you are Paul Forrester, then it’s your birthday on Friday. I think we should have a party.” Paul knew there was something more to this, so he waited for what Scott called “the punch line.” Kurt’s eyes sparkled. “I think this is an excellent idea, because for birthday parties Irmi lets me stay up an extra half hour.” He eyed his younger companion knowingly, and Paul nodded, wondering how many candles they were going to put on his cake. His previous feelings of misgiving were forgotten.

******

Scott was strangely cool about the idea of having a birthday party for Paul. He didn’t like birthday celebrations, but the party was such a morale booster for Kurt that Scott kept his disquiet to himself so he wouldn’t dampen the festivities. As Paul helped with the preparations, he began to realize that birthdays were often a big event for people, and he could see that Scott’s preference for no celebration on his birthday was not usual, especially for a teenager. He wondered about the reason, but when he asked Scott about it, Scott clammed up and said brusquely that he didn’t like parties. Paul decided not to pursue it further.

Paul’s birthday dinner was that Friday, and even though it was a Friday and the schedule said they should be at the Pierces’ cabin, the party was held at the Keitzers’ so Kurt would be sure to get his wish to stay up that precious extra half hour. The evening turned into a joint “birthday party” for both Paul and Scott. Despite his best efforts to stay out of the fun, Scott was drawn out of himself and he soon was in the thick of the action. Both father and son received the usual complement of shirts and socks, but the hit of the evening was a beautiful electric razor which Kurt gave to Scott. “I see you are needing it more and more every day,” he said kindly. Scott was thrilled. It was perfect. For a moment, just a moment, Scott didn’t even care what Greta thought.

After Paul and Scott had finished opening his presents, the group stayed at the dinner table for seconds on birthday cake and ice cream. Finally full, Paul sat back and patted his stomach contentedly. “Dinner was the cat’s pajamas.”

The others blinked with surprise. He looked at them with innocent concern, wondering what was wrong. Irmtraud whispered to Kurt, “ _Wie heist das_ ‘cat’s pajamas’?” Kurt shrugged.

Paul said, “It means _wunderbar_.”

The Keitzers nodded, but Evan was frowning at Paul. “That was in the book?” Evan asked.

“Yes.”

“‘Cat’s pajamas’?”

Paul nodded.

Evan shook his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten you such a thorough dictionary.”

Stephanie patted Evan on the knee. “Way to go, daddy-o.”

The phone rang as they laughed. Kurt answered it, then held the receiver up. “For Evan or Stephanie,” he said.

Evan took the call, and Paul found himself watching him. “Hello? ... Oh, hi.” Evan reacted seriously. “Who were they?” Evan looked at Paul and Scott significantly. “They had a warrant?” On cue Paul and Scott got up and started gathering their gifts. Kurt and Irmtraud also swung into action, clearing the table and putting the wrapping paper in the fireplace. Evan turned back to the phone. “Did they go inside? ... Okay, good. Did he say where they were going?” At Irmtraud’s bidding, Greta dumped the last few pieces of birthday cake down the disposal. As Kurt touched a match to the wrapping paper, the last signs of the party vanished. Evan tried to sound casual. “Okay, well, thanks, Jean. I know who he is. It’s no big deal. And thanks for keeping an eye out on the place for us. ... Yeah. ‘Bye.”

By the time Evan hung up the receiver, Scott and Paul were waiting at the door. After a misty farewell with Kurt and Irmtraud, the two followed Evan out the door. As Paul backed their car out of the barn, Scott memorized the directions Evan was giving him to a motel on the other side of the county. If they didn’t hear from someone within 24 hours, they were to take off.

Ten minutes after the two left, George Fox and a restless young FSA agent arrived at the Keitzers’. George brought in Evan and Kurt from a twilight examination of the small vegetable garden next to the house and pulled Stephanie and Greta away from doing the dishes. As the two women went into the living room, George counted the dishes in the sink, a little disappointed to find only five place settings. Once everyone was gathered in the living room, he showed them his warrant and sent the young agent to search the house.

George was agitated but in control as he paced around the middle of the room. He knew Paul and Scott had been here. When he got the call from the Chicago FSA office about the payoff on the Liz Baynes office wiretap, a call from Dubuque could only mean one thing. They were here. He knew it! But this crowd was tough. He needed just one small sign of weakness. He stopped in front of Stephanie. “You must be Mrs. Pierce.”

“That’s what they call me,” she deadpanned, hoping the shudder that rippled down her spine didn’t show.

He flashed the generous smile of a man in complete command. “We never met. I’m George Fox.”

She nodded. “Evan’s told me about you.”

George smiled again. “I’m sure he has. I hear you’re a photographer.” She nodded, an uneasy feeling growing in her stomach. “As a matter of fact, I did a little research on you, and I found out you knew—excuse me, know,” he said with a pointed gesture, “Paul Forrester quite well.” She shrugged vaguely, then her heart sank as she remembered the negatives of the silly spaghetti dinner shenanigans. The contact sheet was on top of her filing cabinet in her office, right there with the folder containing her starman newspaper clippings. If George searched their cabin, he would see it in no time. Her uneasy feeling quickly turned the corner into nausea. Her distress registered on her face, and the others looked at her with concern. George gazed at her with the façade of compassion. “Are you okay?”

She nodded slightly, wondering if she was going to be sick, and, if she was, whether they would decipher the contents of her stomach and discover birthday cake.

“Indigestion?” George asked solicitously.

“No, no,” she said, trying to sound casual, “just twins.”

“Really?” George said. “That’s wonderful. How far along are you?”

“About eight weeks.”

“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” He looked at her for a long moment, then his gaze narrowed down. “Eight weeks. You’re not even showing yet, and you already know you’re going to have twins?” Stephanie realized her error too late and couldn’t quite hide her reaction. George smiled as he could feel in the room the telltale energy shift from forced calm to suppressed panic. He had them and he knew it. “These advances in science are amazing,” he said, lingering on the last word.

Stephanie countered with, “When you get to be my age, you get every test there is,” but it was a feeble gesture and no one was foolish enough to think it worked.

Now that George had cracked their composure he could go in for the kill. He would let Stephanie stew for a while on what she had done. He looked at each of the others in turn. He looked at Irmtraud; tough as nails, that one. He looked at Kurt; the old man was annoyed but strangely calm. George could do better. Evan was fuming, one step away from exploding; good, the more emotional he was the better. George knew that Evan might be a good poker player, but he had a temper. That made him vulnerable. He could play on that.

George turned and stood in front of Greta. He knew she of all of them probably knew the least, but he could use her as leverage. Evan was the protective type; he would probably take the bait. Greta glanced up at George, then crossed her hands and looked away nervously. Her reaction was exactly what he had hoped for. “You,” he said. “You’re coming in with me for questioning.”

Kurt stood up. “No.” His voice was controlled, but anger poured from his eyes and filled the room. “Mr. Fox, you have no right.”

“Oh, yes I do. I believe she’s a material witness.” George glanced at Evan, but the former sheriff wasn’t making a move to defend the girl.

“She’s here this summer to learn English,” Kurt said. “She is no good for you as a witness.” Kurt gazed at his enemy with the steely indignation of a man who would not back down. All eyes were on him.

George had hoped for a more frantic reaction, and he was disappointed that Kurt had been the one to take up the challenge. George knew his background well, and he grumbled to himself that this sly old codger’s strength would not be whittled away easily. Maybe he should have kept working on Stephanie. “That’s for me to decide.” He reached to take Greta by the arm, but Kurt knocked his hand away. The others shifted forward tensely, but no one stood up.

“Mr. Fox,” Kurt scolded, needling the federal agent, “I think perhaps you have only vague ideas about the rights of an American citizen. But I know them very well. I also know her rights as a foreign national. You have a search warrant, not an arrest warrant. You have no right in this case to come in here and drag her away.”

Kurt had pushed the right buttons. Without realizing it, George went from being the manipulator to the manipulated. “I have probable cause,” he shot back.

Kurt shrugged mockingly. “Probable cause for her? Where is your evidence? I see none.” Kurt crossed his arms pointedly and glared defiantly at George. He was throwing down the gauntlet, and they both knew it.

George squinted at Kurt. He lost sight of his purpose as he could not resist his urge to nail this annoying old man. So, he wanted to fight, did he? He’d be sorry he ever locked horns with George Fox. “We have a lot of unfinished business, Mr. Keitzer,” George said, picking up the gauntlet.

Kurt did something which surprised everyone in the room. He smiled. He knew what he had to do, and he was ready now. “Mr. Fox, if you want to question someone, you question me.”

Both Irmtraud and Evan jumped up at that. “No!” Irmtraud shouted. Fear was in her eyes as she pleaded with her husband. “I forbid it!”

“Kurt, you don’t have to do this,” Evan asserted.

Kurt looked at the two, totally in command. “This is between Mr. Fox and me. He has invaded my house and disturbed my guests. More than once.” He touched his wife’s cheek softly. “ _Liebeschen_ , it’s time, and this is what I want. Do you understand?”

She understood and began to cry, leaning on Evan for support.

The young FSA agent came back downstairs and shook his head to George. George looked at Kurt, wondering what this little piece of melodrama was all about but willing to play along for the moment. He could always come back tomorrow for the others.

Kurt turned and faced George. “Shall we go now, Mr. Fox?” George pointed the way to the door, and the young FSA agent walked out with Kurt.

“Where are you going to be questioning him?” Evan asked.

“You’re not coming,” George stated.

“He has the right to an attorney,” Evan snarled. “I’m going to have one waiting when you arrive.”

“The FSA office in Madison,” George replied reluctantly. He headed for the door, then turned back. “Nobody leave the area,” he said with authority, then left.

******

Paul and Scott waited uneasily in their motel room all day for the phone call. It came just after 2 p.m. Paul answered, and it was Stephanie. He thought he heard hospital noises in the background, and he could tell she had been crying. “Stay where you are,” she said. “We’ll get back to you.”

“What’s wrong?”

She sniffled, then said quietly, “When Fox was questioning Kurt last night, they got into an argument and Kurt had a heart attack. He died half an hour ago.”

Paul was shaken by the news, but somehow he wasn’t surprised. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Somebody’ll call, probably tomorrow.”

Paul hung up the receiver and turned to tell his son, but the dread in Scott’s eyes revealed he already feared the worst. “It’s Kurt, isn’t it?” Scott said. Paul nodded. “He’s dead,” Scott said, a harsh abruptness in his voice. Paul nodded again, not expecting this reaction from his son. Scott turned away. “God, I knew it. I knew it! What happened?” 

Paul said quietly, “Fox was questioning him, and he had a heart attack.”

Scott said nothing in return but only sat on the edge of his bed, staring with horror into space.

Paul thought Scott would cry at the news, and with his reaction he knew something was wrong. “What’s the matter?”

Scott looked at his father, then glanced away. “Nothing.”

Paul sat on the bed next to him. “What is it?”

Scott’s numbness was fading into despair as the idea of never seeing Kurt again began to sink in. His words slipped out unbidden. “I didn’t tell you everything about the Lockharts. I caused the car accident that killed them.” Paul listened seriously. “I guess Mom had given them my sphere when I went to live with them. I don’t really remember any of that. And they gave it to me on my fourteenth birthday and told me it was a gift from my father. I flipped out. I don’t know why. I kept asking them what it meant, and they didn’t know. I just kept yelling at them, and they kept telling me what they knew. The next day we were coming back from Tim Kilpatrick’s birthday party at his grandparents’ house and I was yelling at them in the car ...” He sat in silence, the memory only an abstract image as he sat in this motel room so many miles and years away.

Paul nodded. He understood a few more things now, such as why Scott didn’t like celebrating his birthday, and why he reacted so strongly to Tim’s car accident being on that particular date. “Having the party last night had nothing to do with what happened to Kurt. You know that.” Scott didn’t answer. Paul didn’t want to push, but he didn’t want to let the matter drop. “Scott, in our lives there are things that we choose, and there are things that we can’t. You have to let go of what you can’t control. When I was here the first time, I wanted to stay with your mother, but I couldn’t. There was nothing I could do about it. If I had tried to stay, I would have died. It hurt to leave, but I had to. I couldn’t control the fact that I had to go, and I didn’t hold on to it. Instead I chose to be ready to come back.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Scott said, aware of the anger in his voice but not caring for the moment.

Paul heard the anger, too, but he took no offense. “You can’t change what happened to the Lockharts or to Kurt. But you can be glad you knew them.”

Scott looked at his father, resentful that his life could never be so simple. He knew his father would never comprehend how he felt; no one could. But he nodded in acknowledgement, too wrapped up in his own despair to hear the wisdom in his father’s words.

******

The funeral took place that Monday afternoon. It was a day of a painful beauty, with a calm and fiercely blue sky providing a sharp contrast to the agitated gloom of those gathered at the simple graveside service. The priest gave an eloquent summation of Kurt’s life to the overflowing crowd, making a comparison between Kurt’s quiet contribution to the world’s freedom and the selfless sacrifice of all those through the generations who had fought for the principles of the next day’s holiday, the Fourth of July. The priest called Kurt a hero, an overused word these days, he said, but apt for him. A hero, the priest explained, was an ordinary person who rises to an extraordinary challenge. He said Kurt exemplified this better than anyone he had ever known, and he knew the lesson of his life would be carried on in each person who knew him.

George Fox stood at the edge of the crowd, trying to keep his wits about him. The last 72 hours were an unreal blur, something out of the Twilight Zone. George knew this was General Gates’s fault. Being forced to wait nearly a day for Gates’s personal authorization to fly to Madison had made him crazy. He wouldn’t have made so many wrong choices if he hadn’t been on a leash. He should not have lost his patience and disobeyed the general, he knew that all too well now. For his burst of personal initiative, at the very least he was facing an official reprimand for coercing that young Madison FSA agent to accompany him to Rockland against General Gates’s instructions. But right now, as George looked around at the faces of those around him, that didn’t seem like much. As hard as he tried, George couldn’t block from his mind the image of Kurt’s face as he collapsed. It replayed on an endless reel before his eyes. Looking back, why did it seem as if the old man knew it was going to happen? George felt as if he had been tricked into playing a role of Pontius Pilate. He would give anything to be able to go back to Friday night and start over. The only thing keeping him on an even keel on this brilliant afternoon was constant reminders to himself that the old man had been helping Forrester. Let the others think of him as a hero; he knew this man had turned his back on humanity. Duty, he kept saying to himself, he had his duty. Capture the alien ... he looked away as they lowered the flower-draped casket into the earth ... whatever the cost.

George concentrated his attention on the family as he moved through the crowd. They were now standing in a reception line near the gravesite and townspeople were coming past, so he could approach them from behind without being seen. He recognized Mrs. Keitzer, and in line with her were Mary and Hank Hayden, and the Haydens’ daughters and their families. Standing next to Mrs. Keitzer was a tall man of about 50 whom George had never seen before. Even from behind and at this distance he could tell that suit must have cost at least a thousand dollars. Probably a lawyer, George observed with a smirk. Next to him was that blonde girl. God, why hadn’t he kept working on the girl and taken her in? She must have known something useful. No, he hammered into his head, don’t think about that now. Concentrate. Stay here now.

George stopped as his breath caught in his throat. There, standing between Mrs. Keitzer and Mary Hayden. Through the quiet milling crowd, he could see. Oh, God, it was them! He couldn’t see their faces as they stood with their backs to him, but he didn’t need to, not after all these years. Scott was even wearing that letter jacket George had heard about in Vacaville.

Trying to keep his excitement under control, he moved steadily towards them, closer, closer. He stopped right behind them. This was it, this was finally it. Concentrate on Paul, he thought to himself. Let Scott go if it’s necessary. Unable to believe this was happening, he reached forward slowly towards their arms, then grabbed on with a vengeance and spun them around. “I’ve got you!”

A startled Evan Pierce and Tom Kuehn stared at George as he pulled them roughly towards them. George blinked at them. What kind of joke was this? He saw them! It was them! He knew it was them! Evan and Tom shook their arms free and stepped away. George shuddered. This couldn’t be happening. He looked around and saw that everyone was staring at him. A stony gaze pulled George in with an irresistible, magnetic attraction. It was Mary, slicing him in two with a gaze that could split granite.

“Mr. Fox,” she intoned with a voice like rolling thunder, “you’ve already killed Kurt. What else could you possibly want from us?”

This couldn’t be happening. George was getting dizzy. Evan and Tom, no! It was Forrester and Scott! He put his hand over his eyes and rubbed hard as he stepped away unsteadily. He looked at the group. They were all staring with hatred in their eyes. No, this was not happening, it couldn’t ... He turned to disappear into the crowd, but everyone had pulled away from him. He fled.

Hidden in the astonished crowd was a man and woman who were neither friend nor neighbor to the grieving family. They had followed George Fox from Madison, checking the odometer on the way and noting that the trip was less than 69 miles one way. They watched with the others as George vanished in the cemetery’s parking lot. They looked at each other with surprise, then with the exchange of a few words they decided that he would follow George and she would stay and watch the family.

******

A steady stream of cars came to the Keitzer farm that afternoon, and in the procession no one noticed a car with Washington state license plates come in and park quietly out of sight behind the barn. Irmtraud was a little overwhelmed by the display of support, and she accepted visitors for as long as she could. But by late afternoon she needed quiet, so Mary Hayden took charge. She turned the visitors away and sent home the Kuehns and Fitzmichaels. The only visitors allowed to stay were the Pierces, Mary, Hank, Greta, and Stephan Hochmüller, who had flown in from Munich the night before.

After the others had left, Paul and Scott emerged from their hiding place upstairs and joined the group in the living room. Paul expressed his regret about Kurt’s death to Irmtraud, then Mary pulled him away for a talk. Scott lingered with Irmtraud. He knew this was his fault, even though none of the others would acknowledge that. “I’m sorry,” he said haltingly. “I wish there were something I could do.”

She smiled at him gently, tears in her eyes. “Don’t be sad. It was his last way to help you.” A tear skimmed down her cheek, and her voice began to break. “I am very proud of him. You be proud of him, too.” Despite his best efforts Scott began to cry, and they shared a long, consoling hug.

At Mary’s instigation, Hank and Greta took the dog for a long walk and Stephanie kept Irmtraud company in the living room. The others settled around the dinner table for a war council.

Mary presided. “Our first priority is making sure Scott and Paul are safe. After that, we need to see if there’s anything we can do about George Fox and the FSA.”

“Do?” Paul asked.

“There might be some legal way to stop the FSA. If not,” she said with a chilling lack of emotion, “at least we can get rid of Fox.”

Paul didn’t like the determination in her voice. “I won’t let you harm him.”

She shook her head. “No, I won’t. And I’m sorry about what I said to him. He caught me off guard. But he’s got to be stopped. I’m going to talk with my congressman and senators tomorrow. I’ll see what they can do.”

“First,” Stephan said, “I would like to say I will help in any way I am able. I cannot practice law here, but my law firm in Munich has a business arrangement with a very powerful American law firm in New York and Chicago, and I will give you names of people to call. They are excellent lawyers, so you call them and tell them you are a friend of mine and I will pay all the expenses.”

Mary smiled, her grandmother’s soft demeanor long since supplanted by the hard edge of a professional conspirator. “Thank you, Stephan. But it’s not that simple.” She looked around at each person at the table, then nodded at Stephan. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t know.” She produced a copy of _Conversations with a Starman_ from her purse. She showed it to Stephan. “Are you familiar with this book?”

“Yes, everyone in Germany is talking about it. But I think this person is, _wie heist man_ , a hoax.”

“Not really,” she said evenly. “You’re sitting next to him.”

Stephan frowned and glanced at Evan, who shook his head. Stephan looked the other way at Paul, who simply looked back at him. Stephan reacted with breathless astonishment, then after a moment looked over at Scott questioningly. Scott nodded slightly. Stephan looked away and took a few calming breaths while the others waited patiently.

“So you see,” Mary explained calmly, “this is rather complicated.”

“Yes, I think so!” he said with a bewildered chuckle.

“All right,” Mary continued. “First things first —making sure Scott and Paul are safe.” She looked at the group. “Any suggestions?” After a moment, each of the others shrugged or shook his head. She looked at Evan, who seemed a bit distant. “Evan?”

After a moment, he snapped out of it. “Hhm? Oh. I’m sorry.” His eyes became red. “I was just thinking Kurt was so good at this kind of thing ...” He covered his eyes and sighed stiffly. Stephan put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

Mary nodded, then looked at the group again. “Anyone?” No one responded. After a few moments, Mary looked at Scott reluctantly, then took a deep breath. “I have an idea, but not everyone is going to like it.” She took another moment, then began. “Paul can go live Paul Forrester’s life for a while. That’s the best cover of all for him. ... But I think that for the time being Paul and Scott should split up.”

“No!” Scott shouted fiercely.

She looked at him gently. “Scott—”

“No!” He was livid. “You’re not going to make us split up!” He looked at his father desperately. “Don’t listen to her! She doesn’t know what she’s talking about!”

Mary knew Scott would react like this, but it didn’t soften her firmness. “Scott, this isn’t a decision for you to make.”

Her dispassion made him even more furious. He stood up and seethed with the raw emotions of a child. “You think you know everything, but you don’t! You don’t understand! You can’t make him leave me! He won’t leave me!”

Paul could feel the real cause for Scott’s anger. He stood up and looked at his son gently. “Scott, I don’t want to leave you. Your mother didn’t want to leave you, either.”

Scott shuddered, then turned and walked out of the room unsteadily. The front door opened, and Paul watched through the window as Scott flopped to the ground under the oak tree in the yard.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said as Paul took his seat again. “If there were some other way, I’d gladly take it. But everyone’s looking for two of you, and I honestly believe this is the best way.”

Paul nodded. “I think he understands that.”

Mary said to the others, “We need to find a safe place for Scott. Our family’s too obvious. We need something that’s not a logical pattern.”

Stephan said, “I would be happy to take him with me to West Germany if you could produce ...,” he chose his words carefully, “... convincing documentation.”

Mary smiled. “I’m a little out of practice. Besides, he needs to stay handy. Europe’s too far away.”

“I think I know a place,” Evan said thoughtfully. “My old commanding officer in the Army. He and his wife have a cattle ranch in Montana. They sometimes took in kids who were in trouble. I don’t know if they still do it. I think they’ve even got a son about Scott’s age. I’ll give him a call.”

Mary nodded. “And he’ll need a new name. Scott’s okay, but Hayden’s too dangerous right now. We need something obscure, but something everyone can remember.”

They thought for a moment, then Evan offered, “Prentice. My great-grandmother’s people were named Prentice.” He smiled lightly. “They were Kickapoo. Is that obscure enough for you?”

Mary nodded. “That’s fine. We also need a designated contact person for Scott and Paul. Evan, you’re the obvious choice if he stays with your friend.” He nodded. She looked at the group. “Can anyone think of anything else?”

The group sat silently, and Mary nodded. “All right.” She looked at Paul. “Do you want to tell Scott? I can do it. I don’t mind being the bad guy.”

Paul stood up. “No, I should tell him.” Paul walked outside and found Scott brooding under the oak tree.

“Has everyone decided my life for me?” he said bitterly.

Paul sat down next to his son. “Didn’t we travel through Montana once?”

Scott wasn’t expecting that, but he tried not to show a reaction. “Yeah. On the way here from Washington.”

“Yes, that’s where you told me about cowboys and how you wanted to be one when you were a child. If you live on a cattle ranch in Montana, will that make you a cowboy?”

Scott was struggling to hide his interest. “Cattle ranch? In Montana?” He sat back with cool indifference. “Maybe.” He looked at his father earnestly. “I’d rather be with you.”

Paul nodded. “I wish we could stay together. But I think Mary’s right. We have to remember that George Fox isn’t the only one looking for us now. We have to make sure no one knows we’re the people in the book. If those tabloid newspapers find out who you are, you’ll never have a normal life. If being apart for a little while means we can be together later, I think it’s a good thing.”

Scott didn’t want to admit his father was right, and he looked away distantly. “So, what are you going to do?”

“Be Paul Forrester.”

Scott scoffed. “By yourself? Who’s going to make sure you stay out of trouble?”

“I think you’ve taught me how to keep my nose clean.” The words were right, but Paul didn’t quite have the inflection down. Scott looked at him, then shook his head. Paul frowned at that. “It is my nose, isn’t it?”

Scott laughed. “Yes.” He looked back at the house. “You know, all this stuff has made me think about the Lockharts’ funeral, and everything that’s happened since then. My life has sure changed.”

Paul smiled at him. “Change is part of life.”

“Yeah,” Scott said unenthusiastically as he stood up and faced the house. “And now I get to go be a cowboy.”

******

Scott secretly hoped all the travel arrangements would drag on a bit and give him extra time with his father, but everything was settled with ruthless German efficiency by noon the next day. Evan arranged to have Scott live with a couple named Bud and Flo Sullivan in Montana, and they were expecting him right away. Stephan was leaving late that afternoon for Chicago to visit the lawyers who were the confederates of his law firm in Munich, and Greta was going along. It was perfect to have Scott go to Chicago with them and from there fly to Montana. Paul would stay around for another day or two and take advantage of Stephanie’s photo connections to find work, and then he too would go.

Scott’s time to leave came before he was ready to say goodbye. Stephan and Greta diplomatically waited in the rented Mercedes and Evan, Stephanie, and Irmtraud said their goodbyes in the house, leaving Paul and Scott alone outside the front door.

Scott was trying to hide behind idle chatter and bravado. “So, Dad, see you ‘round. Hey, this is probably going to be great, getting out of each other’s hair for a while. We’re going to love it.”

Paul was surprised at the empty feeling growing in his heart. Scott was still here, but the pain of separation was already pulling at him. “I like having you in my hair.” He wasn’t surprised when tears came to his eyes. “I feel like part of me is going with you. Now I know how your mother felt when she had to say goodbye to you.”

Scott’s false front slipped away. He gave his father a long hug, then turned quickly without looking back and disappeared into the back of the Mercedes. Paul watched as the car drove away, a tear skimming down his cheek. Just as the car was about to go around the last turn, Paul saw Scott turn and look back at him. And then he was gone.

On a hillside a quarter mile away, Eugenie St. Clair watched the scene unfold through powerful binoculars. She had staked out the house in hopes of coming up with something useful. She watched as the Mercedes passed on the road just below her, patting herself on the back for choosing to park her own car on a backroad on the other side of the hill. She focused again on the lone figure standing before the house. Her jaw dropped. Paul Forrester! She had known him fairly well once upon a time. What the hell was Paul doing here? She scowled at her nearby camera and the modest zoom lens that couldn’t capture this. Paul Forrester! She watched through the binoculars as he turned and went back into the house. Why was he here? And who was that kid who left in the Mercedes? She was glad she had copied down the car’s license plate number. Even if this had nothing to do with the story at hand, there must be some good skeletons here to be shaken out of someone’s closet. She packed up and headed back to Rockland to wait for when Paul would inevitably show up for film, booze, or some other physical pleasure of life.

******

Scott said little during the drive to Chicago. At first Greta tried to engage him in conversation, but it was obvious his mind was elsewhere. She left him with his thoughts, and she chatted quietly with her father in German. Scott was surprised at how much of their conversation he understood. He didn’t realize he had learned so much German during his stays with the Keitzers. Was this really something he had gotten from his father? Paul had acquired a good working knowledge of Spanish after only a couple days in Mexico, and he was fluent in German after a week of conversational lessons. He made a mental note, then tried to think of other things.

Scott’s flight left the following morning, so Stephan “and family” checked into the poshest suite in one of the poshest hotels in Chicago. They dined in the hotel’s world-class restaurant, and Scott tried not to feel too out of place. As they ate, Scott and Stephan became acquainted away from the dour funeral setting. Scott discovered this erstwhile “father” of his was a man of charm and class. This display of wealth was in honor of Scott, but Stephan wasn’t trying to impress anyone; he was just happy to have the money to make Scott comfortable. Stephan showed Scott photos of his family back in Munich; Greta’s older sister and two older brothers were almost as good-looking as she was, and Stephan’s wife was a knockout. Stephan proudly showed Scott photos of his two grandchildren, and said another was due in late November. The Hochmüller house in town was incredible, and he showed Scott a photo of their ski chalet in the mountains. He insisted Scott and his father come to visit them someday—when they were able.

Scott remembered Irmi’s story of how German underground members had rescued the young Stephan from a hollowed-out section of the family kitchen cupboard after his parents had been arrested by the Gestapo. He too had known hardship and loss, a life on the run from the authorities. And now here he was, a man at the top of his profession with a wonderful family. How did that saying go? “Living well is the best revenge.” Stephan was doing that in spades. But he hadn’t forgotten what his life had been before. Scott knew Stephan would understand if he told him about his life over the last three years, the sleeping in doorways on back alleys, the constant underlying fear, the not knowing who you could trust. Scott knew Greta would think it all quite, well, alien—Scott chuckled at that—but Stephan would understand. Stephan had already developed a liking to his “mystery son” and taken him under his wing; did he maybe want to make it legal? Scott would not be adverse to that right now. He probably could even say Hochmüller correctly by now. No, he realized, it would never work; he could never think of Greta as a sister. Lust object, yes, but sister, never...

The night of luxury ended all too quickly and the next morning Stephan and Greta took Scott to O’Hare Airport for his flight to Billings. Stephan paid for Scott’s plane ticket and then gave him a small envelope. “Some is from your father, but some is from me.” He smiled charmingly. “I have responsibilities, too, as your other father.” Scott peeked in the envelope. His eyes popped; it was a wad of cash. “This is all you have to live on,” Stephan warned in fatherly tones, “maybe for a long time. So be wise with it.”

They said their farewells at the gate to the plane. As Scott headed down the ramp, he turned for one last wave before trudging on to yet another adventure. The Hochmüller family seemed so content, despite everything that had happened to Stephan; the end of the war had come for Stephan, and he could move on. Scott wondered if the end of the war would ever come for him.

******

The entire business was conducted briskly, with no ceremony. General Gates’s adjutant, the officious Lt. Blake, presented George with the documents stating the terms of his indefinite leave of absence as George sat at his desk. She then took his badge, his office keys, and his codebook. She said, “I see on our records that your .38 is your own, so of course you’ll be able to keep that.” He searched her face for some look of triumph as she handed him a visitor’s badge, but he saw none. She went through his instructions with callous precision: “Please remove the parking sticker from your car after you leave, and if you return to visit please park in a visitor stall as your spot will be temporarily assigned to someone else. A new parking sticker will be issued to you when you return to active duty. Of course this office will still be yours when you get back. And please take home whatever personal items you wish. Be sure to leave by five.”

She turned to go, but George had one last question. “Who’s been assigned to 617W?”

She looked over her papers, then said, “Agent Wylie.” She left.

George buried his face in his hands. Why didn’t they just shoot him and get it over with?

It didn’t take George long to gather his personal items from his office. Having personal items required having a personal life, and George had long since given his up.

He gazed at the map with colored pins indicating locations of unconfirmed sightings, confirmed sightings, and encounters. He gazed at the two black pins on the map: Los Angeles and Peagrum Air Force Base, where he had caught them, only to lose them. What was it about Forrester that he could get people to turn on their own kind and help him? Those third-rate con men in LA were no paragons in the first place, but what about Wayne Geffner? All the follow-up checks indicated he was a hard-nosed pragmatist, hardly the type to fall in with a creature from another planet. And there were scores of people across the country who had aided them, people from all walks of life and personality categories. How could the alien control their minds like that? It must have been some sort of hypnosis or mind control. It was a good thing he was immune to whatever power the alien possessed.

On his way out, George passed by Ben Wylie’s cubicle. He was hunched over something on his desk, oblivious to everything else. George looked in to see what was taking every available brain cell in Wylie’s head—of which he was sure there were precious few—to accomplish. He should have known. The new 617W-A project leader was in the throws of a life-and-death struggle to enter names and telephone numbers in one of those pocket electronic data cards. Well, George thought, Forrester might as well give himself up; his capture was imminent with Wylie in charge.

“Wylie?” George said. Ben looked up with surprise. “I’m going now.”

“Oh, Mr. Fox, I’m glad I caught you.” Ben put away the data card as George wondered why Wylie would think he had caught him when ... oh, never mind. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about this.”

For a moment, George actually thought Wylie was sincere. “Well, it happens.”

“I think it’s terrible the way they’re treating you. They don’t understand what you’ve done all these years.”

George was almost touched. Wylie really was sincere. “Thank you. I left everything the same in the office, so you’ll know where things are.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. I wouldn’t blame you for being bitter and making things hard for me.” Ben smiled encouragingly.

A wave of something resembling tenderness swept over George as he looked at this numbskull who had been nearly as big a thorn in his side as Forrester. “Wylie—Ben, if you ever need to talk about the case, or you have questions, ... would you call me?”

Ben looked surprised. “You know I can’t do that. You don’t have clearance anymore.”

So much for kindness. “Well, good luck.” George walked out of the building and tried not to look back.

******

When Evan had told Scott he was going to a place called Bowman, Montana, Scott had searched in vain for it on a map. He thought with no sense of loss that maybe it was so far up in the mountains that most people didn’t even know it was there.

But Scott’s hopes faded when he looked out the plane’s window as they started the descent into Billings. Stretching out to the horizon were the rolling hills of the high prairie. That didn’t appeal to Scott at all, but in a week like the one he had just come through, this disappointment fit right in.

After the plane arrived at the gate and Scott gathered his bags from the overhead compartment, he remembered Evan’s instructions on recognizing the Sullivans. “About 60. Real solid Montana cow people. Bud looks like somebody named Bud. Flo will be easier to spot. Her hair’s real ... fluffy. You’ll know what I mean when you see her.”

Scott stepped through the gate into the realm of the cowboy. As big Western welcomes took place all around him, he looked for his hosts. Sure enough, there they were. It was Flo’s fluffy hair that gave them away—every carefully coiffed strand was in place under a delicate kerchief—although Bud really _did_ look like a Bud, kind of big, and crusty in a pleasant way, and ... sort of like a big baked potato. They really did look like solid cowfolk, Scott thought. This was going to be an adventure and a half.

He approached them through the crowd and their faces lit up. “Scott Prentice?” Flo said.

He nodded. He had almost forgotten what his name was now.

With a big cowboy howdy, Bud said, “Welcome to Montana!”

“Thanks.”

“Did you have a good flight?” Flo asked cheerfully.

“Yeah, it was good.”

“Well,” Bud said, “let’s get down to the baggage claim and get the rest of your bags.”

Scott shook his head. “This is it.”

The two looked at his backpack and duffle bag, which were actually fuller than usual after the birthday party. “That’s all you’ve got?” she said, trying to keep a diplomatic tone in her voice. Scott nodded.

“Well,” Bud said, “we’re going to have to do something about that!”

The first stop on the trip to Scott’s new life took them to something Scott couldn’t believe—a shop that sold nothing but cowboy boots. Twenty minutes later, Scott had found a pair to his liking that fit, but he blanched when the clerk rang up the total for Flo.

“Two hundred dollars?” he said, trying not to choke.

“And worth every penny,” Bud said. “Sneakers aren’t going to do you a lick of good where we’re going.”

Scott fumbled for the envelope Stephan had given him. “I can pay.”

Bud pushed the envelope back into Scott’s bag. “Keep it. This is coming out of your pay.”

“My what?”

“I pay all my live-in junior ranch hands—you’re the only one, by the way—$300 a month plus room and board. I figure you oughta be in hock to me for about two months’ pay before we leave town,” he said, then winked.

“I’m getting paid?” Scott said brightly.

Bud’s all-business gaze took the joy out of Scott’s plans. “You’re going to earn it.”

The next stop was an apparel store, where they picked up work gloves, work shirts, a work jacket, and enough underwear and heavy socks for an army platoon. When Scott found blue jeans that fit, Bud ordered eight pairs.

“Eight pairs?” Scott couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Bud looked at him, then thought better of it. He said to the clerk, “He’s right, make it ten.” He nodded to Scott. “We’ll save two for school.”

The crowning touch to this new wardrobe was the hat. Scott wasn’t sure about having a cowboy hat. He wondered if he really needed one, and what on earth would he do with it when he left? But Bud and Flo insisted. Scott tried on nearly every hat in the place, fussing all the way. He complained that this one made him look like Dopey, that one like Elmer Fudd. They were at the point of pulling hats off the mannequins when they found it: a nice brown felt one, with a wide brim turned up slightly on the sides and slung down a bit in front and in back. The “Texas Fold,” the clerk said. Scott looked at himself in the mirror. Wow. He looked like a cowboy named Scott Prentice. In the mirror he could see Bud and Flo smiling at him. “We’ll take it,” Bud pronounced.

Just as Bud had predicted, when Scott totaled up the receipts as they drove northwest out of Billings he discovered he was in debt to the tune of nearly $600. He sighed. He didn’t want to be there long enough to work all that off.

They got acquainted on the drive in the pickup. Evan apparently had told Bud and Flo only that Scott’s family was having problems and Scott needed “a neutral corner for a little while.” The couple had assumed that meant a messy divorce, and they sympathized. They’d heard about those. They told Scott about their family—two sons, Mike and Harry, and two daughters, Nell and Celeste, all of whom were married except for the youngest, Harry, who would be starting college in the fall. They had six grandchildren, and everyone lived within 30 miles of Bowman. Scott asked about the ranch, and Bud described it as “just a little family operation, 12,000 acres.” Twelve thousand acres seemed awfully big to Scott, but he kept it to himself. Bud said the only ranch hands were himself, Harry, and Nokay Tall Man, a young Crow Indian a few years older than Harry. Nokay would be the only full-time hand after Harry left for school.

An hour and a half after leaving Billings, they drove through the town of Bowman, if one could call it a town. Scott concluded that if his father’s slang dictionary had an illustration for “wide spot in the road,” it would be a photo of Bowman. Bud explained that people thought Bowman should have an identity crisis at being mistaken for the city of Bozeman, Montana, but most people have never heard of Bowman in the first place. Scott understood why. Bud went on to say that the county school complex was about 15 miles to the west in the Garnet County seat, Macklen, and it had an excellent academic reputation despite its remote location. Scott hoped he wouldn’t be around in the fall to find out for himself.

There were still no mountains, and when Bud turned the pickup down the long, winding road to their ranch north of town, Scott was downright depressed. Life on the rolling prairie held no appeal. As if reading his mind, Flo said that parts of the Lewis and Clark National Forest were further north, and there was some nice scenery up there. Scott made a note to find out more about that.

They arrived just in time for dinner. A welcoming feast with the entire clan had been prepared, and Scott was plunged headlong into life with the Sullivans of the Wild West. They were genuine and strong, straight to the point, and full of humor. Harry was just a year older than Scott and lanky, eagle—eyed, and quick with a laugh. Scott liked these people. They almost made up for no mountains.

At one point, the conversation turned to other kids who had lived with the Sullivans over the years, and it seemed they ranged from runaways to area orphans to juvenile delinquents one step away from the county farm. No one asked Scott particular questions about his family or situation, and he wondered if this was standard Sullivan family policy towards the kids who had come through: don’t pry, just let the story come out on its own. Scott contemplated making up something convincing for them, then decided against it. A stupid story was worse than no story at all. Besides, no one seemed to care. By the end of the evening he had become Scott Prentice, Honorary Sullivan.

That night, as he started unpacking in his room, Scott thought this wouldn’t be so bad. Then he found the electric razor from Kurt. He shuddered as a wave of guilt rushed over him. Despite what his father said, he knew Kurt’s death was his fault. If he hadn’t been there, Fox wouldn’t have come and ... He didn’t want to think about it. He quickly hid the razor in the drawer he had filled with sweaters and dress shirts. Then he pulled out the pocket watch Kurt and Irmi had given him for Christmas last year, and he sadly tucked it under the sweaters. Maybe he could face them later.

Next out of his duffle bag was his father’s leather jacket, which Paul had given to him when Scott had returned his too-visible letter jacket to Tom before the funeral. He looked at it with growing anguish. Why did their lives have to be so complicated? What would have been so terrible about never knowing the truth about what he was? What would have happened if his father had arrived, say, two months later? Fox would have detained Scott, but so what? He didn’t know anything and at the time he couldn’t do anything, so what would have been the point of keeping him? Two months of tests and cross-examinations would have left the feds right where they started, and then maybe they would have let him go. _Then_ his father could have arrived, and then they could have ... No, stop it. He didn’t dare get started on “what ifs.” He stuffed his father’s jacket under the sweaters and closed the drawer. He just needed to put all this out of his life for a little while. Too much had happened for him to deal with right now. Maybe later.

He got into bed and turned off the light. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he gazed up at the sky out the large window next to the bed. It faced west, and he could see the Evening Star swinging low on the horizon. A thousand stars twinkled down at him. Another thousand or so beckoned from the large north-facing window at the foot of his bed. No city lights obscured the celestial display, and he smiled as the Milky Way stretched overhead. “I miss the freedom,” his father had said about not being up among the stars. Scott sighed and closed his eyes, deciding that this was about as close to being “back there” as he would ever get.

******

Stephanie called around to see if any of her friends and former colleagues needed a photographer, but business was slow. She knew she might have gotten a few nibbles if she had been able to mention the photographer was Paul Forrester, but as there was still a wiretap on the line she didn’t dare. She grumbled to Evan over dinner, “I can’t believe I deliberately married a man whose phone is tapped.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t you have a party line when you grew up? It’s about the same.” She didn’t see the humor in that. “You just make all your ‘private’ calls on somebody else’s phone.”

“It’s not so bad,” Paul said to Stephanie, “as long as you’re hep to the jive.”

Stephanie burst out in peals of laughter as Evan pushed the vegetables around on his plate in embarrassment. She managed to say to her husband, “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“Okay,” Evan said to Paul, “let’s try it that you don’t actually use any of the stuff from the book, okay?”

Paul didn’t understand the problem. “You said people talk like the book.”

“Yes, you’re right, and I’m sorry I did. From now on, ignore everything I say.”

Paul wondered about that statement for a moment, then realized he must have meant that as hyperbole. He had read about that in the book’s introduction. That dictionary was coming in handy. “The mail from Liz Baynes must have arrived in Dubuque by now. There might be something in there.”

“You can’t go to Dubuque,” Evan scolded. “Fox obviously found you through the phone call setting up that mail drop. The place is hot.”

Paul was puzzled. “I didn’t know a post office could be stolen.”

Evan frowned and looked at Stephanie for support. She gave him a benign look. “He’s hep to the jive.” She couldn’t contain her laughter. When she settled down, she smiled at Paul appreciatively. “Thank you, I needed to laugh.” She smiled sadly at Evan, and he took her hand, her silent apology accepted.

“Irmi’s due back from the Haydens’ tomorrow,” Evan said to her quietly. “Do you want to take her up on her offer?”

She nodded. “I think it’ll be good for all of us if we stayed over there for a while.”

“Paul, you’re welcome to stay out there with us,” Evan said.

“No, thank you. I have to go.”

Stephanie said, “If you need a headquarters, or a refuge, you’re always welcome.”

Paul smiled. “Thank you. But I want to find Jenny.” He looked at Evan. “Did you know her?”

Evan shook his head. “If I met her, it was a long time ago and I don’t remember.”

“Where would you look for her?”

Evan thought for a few moments. “Let’s see. Where was she living when you found her again?”

“Saguaro, Arizona.”

“How far is it from where you left the first time?”

Paul thought. “Maybe a hundred miles.”

Evan nodded. “Okay. This is just a guess. But an important thing for you to keep in mind is that she wants you to find her but she can’t be obvious about it. She was living within a hundred miles of where you left.” He thought about this for another moment. “It’s my professional opinion, whatever that’s worth, that she’s living somewhere within about a hundred miles either side of the route between where you met her and where you left her. And if she is on that route, chances are better than average that she’s in northern Wisconsin somewhere, close enough to where you met to be a logical place to look but far enough away that she won’t run into anyone she knows.”

Paul smiled. “Thank you. That’ll help a lot.”

Evan shook his head. “I’ve been wrong before. But at least it’s a place to start.”

Paul stood up and stretched. “I’m tired. If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll ...” he looked at Stephanie hesitantly, “... hit the hay?”

She nodded with a smile. “Good night.” He let go a sigh of relief and went to his room.

Before dawn the next morning, after promising to keep in touch via Stephanie’s post office box, Paul left and drove north.

******

Scott shifted stiffly in the tub and groaned as the hot water worked on him. Everything ached. Most things didn’t work anymore. About the only part of his body that seemed okay was his left earlobe. He touched it; nope, that hurt, too. He looked over at the pile of filthy clothes on the bathroom floor. No wonder he needed so many changes of clothing. Nothing could last more than a day in this place.

He slid as far into the water as he could. One day on the ranch had done this to him, only one day. He was probably going to be dead by the end of the week. He had never worked so hard in his entire life. Up at dawn, a massive breakfast, picking out a horse, riding with Harry and Nokay to the upper pasture to move part of the herd to fresh grazing. The cattle dogs had done most of the prodding; Scott had never seen such dedication and precision as those dogs displayed. Without them the ranch would fall apart. Then it was back to the barn and unloading 100-pound sacks of feed Bud had brought in from town. Then it was back out to the pasture because some of the calves had found a calf-size hole in the fence and were running around near the highway. Then, finally, it was home for dinner and collapsing. Scott looked at his hands. Even with heavy work gloves, his hands had ended up raw and bleeding. Actually, Scott thought, it wouldn’t have been so bad if his horse hadn’t tossed him. They never figured out what spooked the animal, but Scott wasn’t ready for it and got a free trip to the dirt. Nokay rounded up the horse and Harry helped Scott get breathing again before they started off on their next errand.

But, for all Scott’s grief, Harry and Nokay both seemed impressed with his natural riding ability—even though they had to unteach all the English horsemanship he had learned—and they kept their discouraging remarks about his inexperience to a minimum. Scott concluded that if he lived, and that seemed unlikely at this point, this might actually do him some good.

He heard footfalls down the hall outside the bathroom door. “Don’t drown in there,” Flo said as she went past.

“No, ma’am,” Scott said, a little amazed that his voice worked. Wait a minute—did he actually say “ma’am?” Next thing you know he’d be saying “Howdy, pardner” and “Git along, little dogie.” Well, he’d worry about that tomorrow. Right now he had to worry about finding the strength to get out of the tub.

******

Lauren Masterson was surprised when the large envelope full of Paul’s mail came back stamped “Unclaimed” and her “Return If Not Delivered in 5 Days” notation circled. She remembered one letter in particular that had seemed important—something official-looking from a law firm in Tacoma—surely he needed to see that. Well, she thought, Paul Forrester is nothing if not unpredictable. She put the large envelope on top of her filing cabinet on her way to an important coffee klatch and promptly forgot about it.

******

Eugenie St. Clair and Peter Harker rendezvoused with their editor for a progress report on the story. Peter relayed news that he in Washington and Deep Poke at his computer had gathered: George Fox was out indefinitely for his misbehavior at the funeral and the new man in charge of the case was his subordinate, Ben Wylie. Eugenie told them about seeing Paul at the Keitzers’ house, but she left out the part about losing him when he never showed up in Rockland. The others were surprised to hear that someone of his stature was apparently involved with this story. She also said she had traced the license plate number of the Mercedes and had identified the renter as a high-priced lawyer from Munich named Stephan Hochmüller, who seemed to have strong ties with the dead man and his wife. She had tracked Hochmüller to his hotel in Chicago, but the only information she could get on the two young people with him was that they were his children. The boy disappeared after one day, and Hochmüller and the girl stayed in Chicago for a couple days before he drove her back to Rockland and then flew back to West Germany.

The editor thanked them for their excellent work, and he told them not to worry about the story being broken piecemeal. All of the other tabloids, he explained, still seemed satisfied with “the usual” treatment so the Midnight Press was going to wait to publish the story until it was done. The editor told Peter to go back to Washington to pursue the developments there and sent Eugenie to Chicago to see if she could track down Paul Forrester’s whereabouts.

Before she left town, Eugenie stopped off to see Deep Poke, who was ensconced in his usual setting. “What can you give me on Paul Forrester?”

Deep Poke stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Even money.” He laughed heartily at his own joke, and Eugenie laughed only because she needed this unsavory mastermind. “Give me two days, and I’ll lay his life out for you on a silver platter.”

True to his word, when Eugenie called Deep Poke two days later from Chicago, the hacker extraordinaire had an interesting array of information for the reporter.

“I’ll just hit the high points,” Deep Poke said. “There’re quite a few, actually. Forrester has a major talent for getting into and out of trouble. How far back do you want me to go?”

“Just the recent stuff. What’s he doing now?”

Deep Poke scrolled through his data. “Don’t know, really. Just for fun, I went through the banking files of the place where Forrester was last seen—a magazine called _The Light of the Plains_ in beautiful downtown Omaha, Nebraska.”

“You can get into banking computers?” Eugenie said, trying to hide her alarm.

Deep Poke smiled. “Let’s just say that I’ve tiptoed through many a tulip in my time. I only found one rather paltry check issued to him last October. That was strange: I figured either he’d lowered his standards or it was an advance. I kept looking and I found another quite substantial check issued on the same purchase order number, but it was made out to an Elizabeth Baynes. Ever heard of her?”

Eugenie flipped through her notebook to records of phone calls she had placed to Paul Forrester’s old haunts. “Yes,” she said. “She’s Paul’s contact here in Chicago. People call her if they want to reach him.”

“Good,” Deep Poke said, “just making sure you’re doing some work on your own. I managed to get into her banking records, and I found a check made out to Paul Forrester in the end of December. It was cashed in Vancouver, Washington.”

“It seems to me I heard about him having a strange accident on some assignment in Nebraska. Do you have anything on that?”

“Does a chicken have lips?” Deep Poke said and with the click of a few keys brought up a fresh screen of information. “Cross-referencing the date of the two checks brought up some newspaper stories about him being missing for a while, and then found suffering from amnesia out in Oregon. Apparently he was attacked by a couple goons working for a chemical company. From what I’ve been able to find on Forrester so far this pattern of disappearing and reappearing seems pretty typical for his career. He has blank spots in his records dating back to high school.”

“So do you know where he is now?”

“No. I’ve been killing time trying to track down a car registration for him—assuming he’s got wheels in his own name—but that means going through each state’s DMV records one at a time and there are seven states I haven’t cracked yet. That’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

Eugenie offered up a silent prayer hoping this man would never be used against her someday.

“There’s one interesting note, though,” Deep Poke said, saving the best for last. “Paul Forrester’s name brings up all sorts of red flags when I go through government computer systems. The flags tell those inquiring minds who want to know to call a certain George Fox at the FSA.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I know, terrible isn’t it? They don’t have that updated yet. Maybe I should do it for them.”

“Okay, well, let me give you a fax number and you can send me what you’ve got.”

“I’m not done yet,” Deep Poke said, savoring this. “I’ve been cross-referencing that flag to see if it’s programmed to come up on any other names. I’ve only found three so far: a Jennifer Hayden, née Geffner, a Karen Iseley, and a Scott Hayden. I haven’t found anything on them yet. I’m still checking.”

“Anything else?” she said, finally learning how to play this man.

“That’s all for now. And you really should get a laptop computer and modem so I can send you information directly. Fax machines are so public. Peter has a laptop. They’re very useful. You seem like the old-fashioned, handwritten note type. That’s dangerous in this business. And surely on what you’re being paid for this you can afford a modest piece of 20th century hardware.”

Eugenie bristled, even though she knew he was right. She had never had a problem with her notes before, thank you, and she wasn’t interested in changing her ways now, especially for this man. She signed off by thanking him for his concern, and then she called Peter in Washington with Deep Poke’s latest news. He took everything down—she bristled again when she heard the clicking of a computer’s keys in the background as he entered what she told him in his laptop—and he promised to call her that evening to report on his next “meeting.”

******

Ben Wylie was having lunch where he always had lunch on weekdays with good weather—an open-air restaurant two blocks from the FSA headquarters. It was a beautiful day, and the place was packed. He was savoring a roast beef sandwich when a man with a tray made his way through the crowd and stopped at his small table. “Is anyone sitting here?” the man said, indicating the other chair.

Ben wanted to eat alone—he had a lot on his mind with 617W-A being his sole responsibility now—but he shook his head and gestured for the man to sit.

“Thanks.” Peter Harker sat and started his salad. After a minute or so, he looked at Ben curiously. “Aren’t you Ben Wylie?”

Ben frowned. He had never seen this man before—had he?

Peter smiled. “I’m sure you don’t remember me. Phil Gladstone. Accounting. We met at some party, I don’t remember when. I remember we were commiserating about the budget cuts.”

Ben shrugged. It seemed plausible.

“So how are things?” Peter said, keeping up his idle chatter. “It sure seems like everyone’s going nuts.”

Ben nodded and chuckled. “That’s the truth.”

Peter leaned in confidentially and whispered. “I mean, what the heck happened with George Fox?”

Ben looked around nervously and shushed Peter. “How do you know about that?”

“Are you kidding?” Peter said quietly. “Everybody knows. The rumor mill’s really been working overtime on him. What’s the story?”

Ben hated gossip. He’d heard a lot of wild stories about what was supposed to have happened, and people from all over the agency had been bugging him for information. He eyed Peter, wondering if he wanted more grist for the mill or if he really wanted to know the truth. He decided to hedge his bet. “Gates didn’t agree with something he did.”

Remembering the name Gates from Deep Poke’s briefing, Peter said, “But people disagree all the time, and most don’t end up out on the street.”

“He’s not out on the street,” Ben said angrily, defending a man who would never have returned the favor. “He’s on leave.”

“Indefinite leave,” Peter corrected. “What did he do? Did it have to do with that man who died?”

Ben squinted at Peter. He hadn’t heard that bit of news pop up yet. “Who told you that? He had nothing to do with that. The old guy had a heart attack, that’s all. It could’ve happened to anybody.”

Making a mental note of the cause of death, Peter looked around, then leaned in. “I heard he busted up the funeral. Made quite a spectacle of himself.”

Ben said nothing. He looked down at his sandwich. He had been so hungry a few minutes ago, but his appetite was gone now.

Peter ate heartily. “He must have had his reasons. Doesn’t Gates know that?”

Ben sighed sadly. “It’s not his fault that there were people there who looked like Forrester and the Hayden kid.”

Peter hid his smile. Bingo! “Didn’t Gates understand that?”

Ben was getting sick to his stomach by this point. “Look, ... Phil, I need to get back.” Ben put a tip on the table and left. Peter watched him go, then looked at the abandoned sandwich. Half of it wasn’t even touched. He wrapped it up in extra napkins and took it with him when he left.

During a conference call with Eugenie, Deep Poke, and the Midnight Press editor, Peter relayed what he had gotten from Ben Wylie. The editor was delighted. The two reporters tried to put together a composite of what Scott Hayden must look like based on the young man Fox had accosted during the funeral—late teens, dark hair, on the tall and thin side. Deep Poke was still digging for information on Scott Hayden, Jennifer Geffner Hayden, and Karen Iseley, but he thanked Peter for the valuable tip on Scott’s age. Peter couldn’t believe he had actually told Deep Poke something he didn’t already know.

Eugenie was getting nowhere on tracking down Paul Forrester. All she knew was a reporter named Liz Baynes was his contact, but she had just returned from an assignment in West Berlin and Eugenie’s surreptitious probing had turned up that Liz had not heard from Paul in months. The editor asked Peter if he had been able to track down George Fox, but Peter reported that George had gone on vacation somewhere and no one knew where.

The editor thanked his team for their hard work. He told them it was obvious now that George Fox was pursuing Paul Forrester and Scott Hayden, but the motive wasn’t clear yet. Scott’s age fit into the puzzle of facts gathered so far—any child born nine months after the massive chase from northern Wisconsin to Arizona in 1971 would be nearly 17 now. Jenny Hayden could possibly be Scott’s mother. But who was Karen Iseley, and how in the world did Paul Forrester fit into the picture? If they were going to make this story the scoop of the century, they were going to have to have every single fact in place before they went to press. The editor told Peter to follow the trail of the starman chase 18 years earlier to get the background, and he sent Eugenie to California. Deep Poke had turned up Scott Hayden’s drivers license with a Vacaville address. The trail might be cold, he told them, but they could still find useful information that might uncover the starman.

******

Paul drove around northern Wisconsin, looking for Jenny. He stayed in each town for a couple days, picking up odd jobs when he could, trying to blend in. Sometimes he would ask if anyone knew of a woman artist in the area. There were more women artists than he expected, and he moved through the region slowly, trying to keep his hopes up.

He checked in with the Pierces regularly, always waiting in town until he got a reply through the mail. But usually the word back was merely “No news.” He finally asked Stephanie to contact Liz Baynes and gave her the address. Surely Mark and his lawyer had come up with something by now.

Traveling without Scott was very lonely. He missed the pestering and complaining, the questions, and advice, and so many other little things. He wondered if this empty feeling was how Jenny had felt after he had left. He hoped not. It was a terrible feeling. He would check in on Scott through his sphere without actually making contact with him, and he knew that Scott was getting along well, even if he was not completely happy. Paul was not worried about his son. Scott was strong, like his mother. Paul knew he would find a way to get through this on his own.

******

Scott threw himself into this new life with determination. After surviving the first week, Scott was surprised to discover how much he wanted to be a part of this world. When a new chore came up, he never had to be asked twice if he wanted to learn. Each morning, breakfast would be barely over and he would be up and headed for the tack room. The curry comb and reins became more a part of his hands than his sphere had been. He still kept his sphere in his pocket, mostly out of habit, but he never used it. Even when using it might have saved an hour or two of mending fences—assuming his batting average was up and he could make it work the way he wanted—the thought never really occurred to him. Someone was usually within eyesight, and even when he was alone he would have been hard pressed to explain how he got the work done so quickly. No, that part of his life didn’t fit in here. It seemed funny to him that his “secret identity” seemed so much a part of their stay on the farm in Vacaville, and yet here it was so out of place. What was the difference? His father was with him in Vacaville, first of all. Their time there had also been a chance for them to be together in peaceful circumstances; that certainly wasn’t the motivation for his stay here. Besides, in some strange way, using what minor abilities he had seemed like cheating on his ranch chores. It was like that line from one of Harry’s Riders in the Sky albums: “It might be the easy way, but it’s not The Cowboy Way.”

Scott quickly became fast friends with Harry and Nokay. Harry was good-natured and had a ringing laugh that he used often. Nokay was open and generous, and he gladly took Scott on as a student when he expressed an interest in learning the Crow language. 

The ranch was beyond the reach of most radio and television stations, so the family had a prodigious record collection. Harry got Scott hooked on the Firesign Theatre and Riders in the Sky. The boys quickly found their theme song, and when they passed in the hall there was never an exchanged greeting, only a joint rendition, complete with air guitar riff, of: “My pappy said, ‘Son, you’re gonna drive me to drinkin’ if you don’t stop drivin’ that Hot—Rod—Lincoln.’“ Bud’s collection of country, jazz, folk, and early rock and roll was also well used by the boys. Scott nearly died of laughter one night when Bud graced them with his Chuck Berry imitation. He’d never imagined a giant baked potato had moves like that.

Flo helped out with ranchwork on weekends, but during the week she took care of their daughter Nell’s two daughters while Nell worked in the Garnet County highway office in Macklen. Peggy was two and a handful, and Lisa was eight and full of questions. Born with the Sullivans’ aplomb and her father’s lack of diplomacy, she zeroed in on Scott one morning when he picked up the two girls and drove them out to the Sullivans’ ranch.

“So, what’s wrong with you?” she asked.

“What?” he said, not quite keeping in a laugh.

“My dad says all the kids who live with Grandma and Grandpa are either losers, delinquents or basket cases. What are you?”

Scott laughed. “I guess probably a basket case.”

“Oh. What’s a basket case?”

Scott shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“So, how come you’re living with Grandma and Grandpa?”

“I can’t live with my parents right now.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Are you weird or something?”

He couldn’t resist. He leered at her threateningly and snarled, “My father’s from outer space!”

She scowled. “Get real.”

Scott was rewarded by Bud for his first weeks of dedicated hard work by getting a rare weekend off with Harry and Nokay. They packed the Sullivans’ pickup truck with camping gear and headed off for fishing, swimming, and much-needed goofing off in the nearby section of the Lewis and Clark National Forest.

They camped out under the big sky, watching shooting stars and satellites pass overhead. Nokay told them Crow legends, Harry shared a few Sullivan family tall tales, and Scott gave them a quick astronomy lesson. Scott sighed as he reveled in the camaraderie. How sweet and simple it all was.

“This is great,” Scott said. “I could live up here all the time.”

Nokay shook his head wisely. “It isn’t always this nice. Last winter a couple crosscountry skiers died about two miles from here.” Harry nodded in acknowledgement.

“Died?” Scott exclaimed, jolted out of his idyll. “Were they caught in an avalanche?”

Harry shook his head. “Hypothermia.”

That sounded familiar to Scott, but he couldn’t place it. “What’s that?”

Harry explained, “It’s like when you exercise really hard in the cold. Your clothes get sweaty, and sometimes they act like a wick and suck all your body heat out. You’re walking around, and then you just freeze to death.”

Scott frowned. All of a sudden this place didn’t look so wonderful after all.

Nokay added, “Boaters, too. They fall overboard in a cold lake. Sometimes they even get out of the water right away but their clothes stay wet and it still happens.”

“You guys are doing this to me on purpose, aren’t you?” Scott countered with a nervous laugh.

Harry and Nokay looked at each other knowingly. “It’s the truth,” Harry said. “It happens.”

Scott realized they weren’t picking on him. “So what do you do if you get hypothermia?”

Nokay shrugged. “Start praying.” Harry smiled as Scott frowned. “It can kill you in half an hour. My cousin Melly took a first aid class once. She said the important thing is to get the person back up to 98.6 right away. I guess some hospitals have things like big bathtubs and they put the people in them and warm the water up to body temperature. But I don’t know how much good one of those things would do. I can’t remember ever hearing about someone getting hypothermia in a hospital.” Nokay kept a straight face for as long as he could, but Scott cracked up and broke the mood.

The subject drifted to less life-and-death topics, and Harry wondered aloud what he would get out of college, and Scott asked him, “What do you want out of life?”

Harry mused on this, then said, “I guess I want to be important. Not like be President or like that, but, you know, make a difference. Have people say, ‘Hey, there goes Harry Sullivan, he’s a great guy.’ You know, like be captain of the football team like Mike was. Mom and Dad would’ve let me go out for sports in school if I’d asked, but I was needed on the ranch, so I didn’t.”

“You can do that in college,” Nokay said.

“Yeah,” Harry said without conviction, “but, it’s more than that. ... It sounds kinda weird, but we read this book in Mrs. Stevens’ class last year about King Arthur and the Round Table, and I could’ve been a great knight.”

After a moment of forced silence, Scott and Nokay let loose their laughter, and Harry joined them.

When the boys came back Sunday evening, Bud and Flo could tell they’d had a great time, but they couldn’t figure out how their son and Scott had become Sir Harry and Sir Scott of Bowman.

A sweet contentment came over Scott as his stay on the ranch extended into the second month. It was easy to lose track of his life’s freakish injustices when there were fences to mend and cattle to move into the next pasture, but there was more to it than that. There was something about this place, with its simple rhythms and haunting beauty. Scott didn’t know what it was, but maybe it had something to do with spending every day working close to the earth out under that enormous sky that kept people in touch with the humble truths of life.

Scott received the greatest compliment of his life riding home with Bud after a particularly grueling day. Even the usually frisky dogs were nearly done in. But Scott could feel the sunset behind them and he stopped to admire the fiery show. Several pronghorn antelope grazed on the horizon and were silhouetted against the magnificent display. After the sun had slipped from sight and the clouds had lost their rosy luster, Scott looked at Bud with a curious squint. “Bud, why is it that I think this prairie out in the middle of nowhere is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen and I can’t imagine being anywhere else?”

Bud smiled. “That’s ‘cause you’re a cowboy, son.”

Bud and Flo were happy to have Scott with them. Of all the kids they had taken in, none had been quite like Scott. Most of the others were angry with the world and looking for trouble, acting a lot like yearlings who had learned to bust down their stalls. They usually came around after a lot of love and discipline. But Scott didn’t fit the mold. He started out good and just got better. The only unusual thing they noticed about him was he never mentioned his family, not even the odd complaint or comment. This seemed strange to them, considering. They couldn’t imagine what kind of ogres Scott’s parents must be, such selfish people that they would dump a good kid like Scott—via a non-family intermediary, no less—with total strangers and then never write or call him, not even a postcard. They concluded he had run away from home and ended up with Evan, or he was just so good that his rotten parents couldn’t take it anymore and booted him out. Either way, they agreed Scott was their favorite of all their “part-time children.”

Scott underwent a gradual transformation over the course of the summer. Obvious were the physical changes. The sun tanned him to a burnished copper, and his hair bleached several shades lighter. He grew another two inches, and he began to broaden through the shoulders. Had the others known his family, they would have seen that as he was maturing he was looking more like his mother every day.

But less noticeable was an inner shift. He could toss 100-pound bags of feed into the back of a pickup without thinking twice about it, he knew how to read the weather three days in advance, he could ride horses bareback without a bridle, and he could even live off the land if he needed to. Well versed in ranch and wilderness living, he was developing a new confidence and self-reliance. 

Scott thought about his father a lot, wondering where he was and how he was doing, but it was beginning to seem slightly abstract to him. Some instincts didn’t die. He kept the envelope of cash from his father and Stephan under his mattress instead of putting it in the bank, and he kept a watchful eye on all the small planes and helicopters that passed over the ranch. But the urgency that had been so much a part of his former life slipped quietly away. One day, when he accidentally left his sphere in his dirty jeans and Flo found it in the wash, he calmly identified it as his, laughed at her joke about it being a strange kind of ballast, and without much of a thought put it in his sock drawer.

The only ripple that passed through Scott’s life was when his birthday came and went. He said nothing about it to the Sullivans, turning 17 only in the privacy of his own heart. As he lay awake in bed that night, he mused on Tim Kilpatrick celebrating his birthday the next day. Scott wondered if Tim would have seen 17 if he hadn’t gone to see him. He smiled as he remembered their joint birthday party when they reached the milestone of 13. What a blowout that had been. His smile faded as he remembered their promise to each other to have another massive party when they reached 16. He wondered if he would ever be able to see any of his old friends again. The idea didn’t generate much of a reaction. Everything seemed so far away now. He was Scott Prentice now, Honorary Sullivan. If it came to it, he could stay with this life for a long time.

******

Eugenie St. Clair and Peter Harker worked hard for the scraps of background information they gathered over the summer. Peter started in Arizona and worked his way backwards. The going was slower than he thought, as the crosscountry chase 18 years ago was etched clearly in many peoples’ memories along the way, and he became bogged down interviewing people. Most of those he talked to told the same stories, but he didn’t dare overlook any possible interview for fear of missing a key piece of information.

Eugenie got the story of Scott’s life in Vacaville as best she could. She was at a disadvantage because school was out and many of Scott’s teachers, including the adviser of the science club, were out of town. She didn’t have the authority to get a copy of his student photo identification card, so she looked through a copy of the school yearbook in hopes of finding a photo of him. In the middle of a section dedicated to photos of club activities, at Eugenie’s very fingertips, was a photo Scott had worked so hard to avoid: There he was, caught in the background of a snapshot of two science club members posing with their science fair projects. The image was grainy but in focus and identifiably Scott. However, Eugenie’s recollection of what Scott looked like was based on seeing him from far away and the image in her mind was not clear. She moved past the photo without seeing him, and eventually she gave up her search and moved on.

Disappointed but ever hopeful, Eugenie took the list of towns George Fox had visited in his travels for Project 617W-A and started retracing his steps as best she could. As she still had no names or addresses to go on, she concentrated on the small towns, where informal information would be more easily obtained. If nothing else, she had access to that helpful, independent, in-depth repository of indigenous information—the local newspaper.

Eugenie came up empty more than once, but she did find an interesting surprise when she visited the offices of the San Leon Courier in San Leon, California. She found out that Paul Forrester had been on staff for a short time and he and his son had disappeared one step ahead of George Fox. She was directed to talk with the managing editor, Joe Connell. She had known Joe’s byline from her journalism school days, but she had heard through the grapevine that he had succumbed to the burnout that claims many a good reporter and he had skidded to the bottom. She was surprised to find him in a position of authority, even in a small-town paper.

Despite what the others on the paper had said about Joe being close to Paul, he turned out not to be helpful. Fiercely protective of his friendship with Paul, Joe told her nothing that the other staff members hadn’t already said.

However, as she left the offices, she realized Joe had left out something one of the reporters had mentioned: For the last year or so, Joe had occupied his free time with working on a novel, but he was being secretive about it and no one had read it. Most fledgling writers prefer to keep their works-in-progress under wraps, so there was nothing unusual about that. The reporter had said he thought Joe was calling it Something New Under the Sun. She wondered if that was important and made a note of it before moving on to the next town.

******

Scott and Nokay went along with Bud one sweltering August afternoon to pick up a load of hay from a neighbor. The mound of bales was near the barn just as the neighbor said it would be, but no one was home. The only sign of life was a dog staked out in the yard who barked ferociously and yanked on his chain to get at the intruders. Safe in the truck’s cab, the three eyed the dog for a moment. “He’s a real puppy when Jim’s around,” Bud said slowly. They looked at each other, then Scott and Nokay got out of the cab.

As they walked towards the mound of hay, the dog lunged for them against his chain, nearly choking in his fury. Suddenly the chain broke and the vicious animal bolted towards them. They froze. They were too far from the truck to get back safely. They were trapped.

With no time to think, Scott held out his hand to the dog as it bore down on them. The animal’s sprint turning into a bounding gait, and the dog sidled up to Scott with a happy bark and a wagging tail. Nokay stared at Scott with relief and Bud got out of the truck. Bud approached cautiously as Scott petted the docile animal, the unspoken question all over Bud’s face. Scott shrugged and smiled at Bud. “He just wanted to play.”

Scott tied the dog back up and the three went to work on loading the hay onto the truck. The neighbor came back a few minutes later, and he and Bud went off to the house to talk while Scott and Nokay kept working.

The boys loaded hay in the blazing sun, then took a break in the shade of the barn. Nokay talked about how he used to live on the reservation near Billings. His father had gotten a job with the Sullivans years ago and had brought him and Nokay’s grandfather with him when he left the reservation. His father was hurt a couple years ago and went on Social Security, and Nokay took over his job at the ranch. When Scott said he would like to visit the reservation with Nokay sometime, Nokay quickly said Scott wouldn’t want to if he knew what it was like. “It’s like being in hell. All these people walking around dead, only the lucky ones don’t know it.”

“Why is it so bad?”

“The whole system stinks. It teaches you all the bad things, like dependence and no self-respect. And it’s gone on for so many generations that people don’t know how to do anything anymore, except beg and get drunk. The old ways are dying out with the old people. I ask my grandfather questions all the time, but he’s not going to be around forever. And what happens when all the old people are gone?” He shook his head sadly. “No one seems to care anymore.”

“Can’t you do anything about it?”

Nokay frowned, then a quiet smile crept over his face. “You know what my secret wish is? I’d like to be a teacher.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Not a high school teacher, but a cultural teacher. Teach the young kids about the Crow way of life, what we are. All kids, not just Indian kids. There are so many things that the mind can’t understand. But the heart knows. We can’t know who we are if we don’t know the secrets of our hearts. The people in the old days knew their hearts. They understood that there’re things you can’t understand. Does that sound strange to you?”

Scott smiled. “No.”

Nokay smiled at him. “No, you understand. You’re different from other people.”

“I think Harry and his parents would understand.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” He gestured off towards the dog, who was contentedly napping in its house. “Different. My grandfather had a dream about you.” Scott was surprised, as he had never met Nokay’s grandfather. “He said in his dream you were an eagle, and you flew high above the mountains, higher than any other eagle, because your nest wasn’t in the mountains, it was in the stars.” Nokay looked at him. “I don’t suppose you know what that means.” Scott smiled and nodded. “And he said there were wild dogs or wolves chasing you, and they were snapping at your heels.” Scott reacted thoughtfully. “He didn’t see how it ended.”

Scott rubbed his eyes. “Too bad.”

“You’re special, Scott. My grandfather asked about you even before I mentioned you were at the Sullivans’. He won’t tell me what it is about you.”

Scott shrugged. “Sounds familiar.”

“You’re definitely different,” Nokay said. “You understand things other people don’t.”

Scott smiled wanly as he shook his head. “I don’t understand anything.”

Nokay smiled. “I’ll figure it out someday. Grandfather asked if you were Indian. He said if you weren’t you should be.” Scott smiled at that. Nokay squinted at the tanned Scott, then smiled wryly. “Look at you, you look like you escaped from a reservation somewhere. And you speak Crow better than my cousin Melly does.” He scrutinized Scott, then shook his head. “Nah, you don’t have the nose.”

Scott smiled. “My cheekbones are wrong, too.”

Nokay chuckled. “What is your ancestry, anyway? Sometimes I’m pretty good at that, but I can’t quite figure you out.”

Scott cleared his throat and tried to remember the names in the Hayden family photo gallery in Madison. “Some German, and English, and some Irish I think, and ...” He gestured vaguely.

“One of those, huh?” Nokay nodded.

“Something like that,” Scott said and got up to go back to work.

******

As life on the prairie rolled on in its steady pace and August neared its end, Scott began to wonder what was going on with his father. He knew the deal was he would hear nothing unless it was an emergency, but it was nearly two months now. The Sullivans didn’t watch much television, so he rarely saw the news. The only newspaper they got was from Great Falls. Scott would search it for any sort of story related to _Conversations with a Starman_ , but it was a small paper and apparently didn’t have room for such inconsequential stories. Twice during the summer he had found listings of the Top Ten Bestsellers, and the book was listed in the non-fiction section, the first time at number six and the second time at number nine. Well, he thought, at least sales had peaked. But he was going to be starting school here soon, and he would prefer to start school somewhere else—wherever his father was. He got his sphere out from the drawer one night after everyone else had gone to bed, but the months without practice told on him. He could connect with it, but there was no sense of connection with his father. He let the sphere fall silent and decided that if something came up that he needed to know, someone would call him. He put the sphere back in the drawer.

******

Paul worked his way, town by town, down the seemingly endless roads in northwestern Wisconsin. He was still moving slowly and cautiously, trying to search for Jenny as thoroughly as he could without running the risk of drawing attention to himself and spooking her. He used a different name in each town so he wouldn’t leave a trail of his own. He was becoming more and more discouraged. Mark Shermin was right; Jenny was indeed a very small needle in a very big haystack. He hadn’t noticed before when Scott was with him, but now the process seemed endless.

His travels came to an end the last day in August when he got a letter from Stephanie. She had gotten in touch with Liz Baynes and Liz had written her back with an urgent message for Paul to call her. Paul called the number Stephanie gave him in the letter, and a man answered. Paul asked for Liz, and in a moment she was on the line with a bright greeting. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been better.”

“I can imagine,” she said quietly. “I saw the book. I can’t believe you let that happen.”

“I can’t, either.”

“How’s Scott?”

“I don’t know. He’s not with me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Liz, do you have mail for me?”

“A few pieces.”

“I’m expecting a letter from Mark Shermin’s lawyer.”

“I didn’t see anything like that.”

“Lauren Masterson was going to send me some mail.”

“Oh, well, she got fired. Too much socializing and not enough work. But I’ll check around to see what happened to it. Paul, look, I want you to get to Chicago as soon as you can. I’ve got an assignment I know you’ll want to be in on. Can you be here tomorrow morning?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll meet you in my office just before 10 then.” She was about to hang up when she realized with an apology that she had forgotten he didn’t know the magazine’s address. She gave him the address and directions, then, with a tender sigh, said goodbye.

Paul drove to Chicago that night and, after getting caught in Monday morning rush hour, arrived at Liz’s office ten minutes late. She was happy to see him and looked wonderful. There was a mysterious sparkle in her eye that he had seen once before—she had looked at him that way sometimes when she thought he was the real Paul Forrester. That didn’t make him feel comfortable. Had she forgotten? There was no time to talk, and she escorted him into her editor’s office.

Paul could tell Ed Tanney knew the real Paul Forrester well—that frown of disapproval when he and Liz came through the door was unmistakable. Here was a man with a flair for the dramatic who wasn’t ashamed to use it. “Late as usual, I see.” Paul shrugged as he and Liz took their seats. “Has Liz filled you in?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay—” He stopped and eyed Paul with a theatrical skepticism. “You are going on this, aren’t you?”

Paul looked at him innocently. “Yes.”

“You don’t have some erupting volcano to rush off to?”

“No.”

“Good. I just want you to know that to ensure your attendance on this assignment, I’ve given Liz a pair of police-issue handcuffs to keep you in line.”

Paul blinked and stared at Liz, who shook her head with a reassuring smile. Paul sat back meekly and gave Ed his complete attention.

Ed sat down at his desk. “This is a story I vowed I would never touch, but Liz talked me into it.” He looked at Paul flatly. “The starman.” Paul blanched, and Ed shook his head. “Don’t say it, I know. This is tabloid turf. But we can’t ignore what’s going on anymore. A lot of people have gotten really weird about this. Liz found out about this woman, some artist. She lives out near Flagstaff somewhere. She claims to be this alien’s contact with Earth.” Ed sighed, not wanting to give this any more credence than it deserved. Paul looked at Liz significantly, and she nodded slightly. Ed continued, “I think this is the biggest bunch of malarkey since Hitler’s diary, but Liz thinks we should do a piece on how people are reacting to this ... story.” He eyed Paul critically. “If you will be gracious enough to find the time to go on this assignment, I know you and Liz can get to the bottom of this. If she’s a nut, show it. If she’s for real, and heaven help us if she is, get it on film.”

Paul looked at Liz, and she nodded to Ed. “Don’t worry, Ed. We’ll do great. We always do.”

“Yes, well,” he said pointedly at Paul, “some of you always do. Liz will give you the skinny on the way.” He nodded for them to go. They got up and headed for the door, and he said after them, “Remember, children, decorum, always decorum. We’re treading on very thin ice here.” Paul and Liz were at the door when Ed stopped Liz with a look of concern. “Liz, what did you do, put saltpeter in his coffee? I haven’t seen him this well-behaved in 15 years.”

She shrugged. “He had to grow up sometime.”

Paul smiled at Ed. “See you.”

Liz and Paul left, and Ed shook his head. “Now I have seen everything.”

Paul and Liz waited until they were in his car on the way to O’Hare Airport before they discussed the case at hand. Liz started, “I knew you’d want to be a part of this.”

“But it can’t be Jenny,” Paul said. “She would never draw attention to herself by saying she knew the starman.”

“Well, I don’t know. Strange things are happening out there. You probably don’t know half of what’s been going on. Did you know there’s now a network of people across the country who want to help you?” Paul looked at her quizzically. “They call themselves ‘Friends of the Starman.’ It’s like the old Underground Railroad that helped slaves escape north before the Civil War. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard of. Total strangers coming together to offer help to someone they’ve never met.”

Paul reacted thoughtfully. “I wonder how many of them are named George Fox?”

“Not all of them. I met a few members a week ago. That’s how I found out about this woman in Arizona. They’re normal folks. And they want to help you.” She smiled slightly. “I guess you just keep changing people’s lives. If not in person, through the book.”

Paul frowned. “I wish I could do something to stop that book.”

“Hey, don’t knock it. A little good press never hurt anybody.”

“I don’t want any press. I just want to find Jenny and get Scott back and be a human being.”

Liz smiled at him fondly, that twinkle in her eye again. Paul didn’t know how to ask her what that twinkle meant, but he knew he was the cause somehow. He wasn’t so sure that was a good thing. “How are you, Liz?” he tried. “You look good.”

She smiled that special smile. “I’m doing great.” There was that twinkle again. “I’m getting married.”

Paul relaxed. That explained the twinkle. “That’s wonderful.”

She giggled slightly. “I know. And you have a lot to do with it.”

“Me?”

She shook her head with embarrassment. “If you hadn’t chosen Paul to,” she gestured vaguely at him, “you know, I would have carried a torch for him for years. But you helped me let go of him.” Then she remembered she shouldn’t have used such an obscure expression. “Oh, carry a torch, it means—”

“— To be faithful to someone’s memory or to an unrequited love.” He smiled proudly.

She was duly impressed. “You’ve come a long way, mister.”

“Who are you marrying?”

“His name’s Louis Jeffers. He’s an assistant director with the Chicago library system.” Her eyes glazed over with affection. “He’s kind, and thoughtful, and gentle, and loving, and dependable, and totally opposite from Paul Forrester. I guess I finally grew up, too.”

“Does he know about me?”

“He knows about Paul,” she said slowly, “but he doesn’t know about you. He knows Paul’s changed, but he doesn’t know why. ... He thinks you had a head injury.” Paul did a double take. “Well,” she apologized, “it was the only way I could explain a total personality change. Sorry.” Paul wondered how he was supposed to act if he ever met Louis. “So,” Liz continued, “you know the infamous Stephanie Dufay.”

He smiled. “Yes.”

“I’ve never met her. She sounded very nice on the phone.” She frowned. “Paul used to say the worst things about her.”

Paul chose his words carefully. “She got him where he lived.”

Liz laughed the rest of the way to the airport.

******

The flight to Flagstaff was pleasant, although it was delayed slightly. A strange glitch in the control tower’s computer that couldn’t be cured kept the plane at the gate for an extra 20 minutes, which was long enough for a woman passenger, whose connecting flight was late, to get on the flight. As if by magic, no sooner had she checked in than the computer glitch disappeared and the flight was on its way.

In Flagstaff, Liz and Paul checked into their hotel and Liz called her local contact to see if she could arrange an interview with the mysterious artist who claimed to be the starman’s contact. The intermediary called back with good news—the woman had agreed to meet with them Monday evening at her house in the mountains. Paul’s curiosity was especially piqued when Liz relayed the intermediary’s comment—”She said she was particularly interested in meeting _you_ , Paul Forrester.”

Liz and Paul went down to a lounge next door to their hotel for a light dinner. They chose a table in the corner, and Paul sat with his back to the room—just in case. There was a mirror against the wall behind Liz, and he could see most of the room quite easily. They talked over sandwiches, and most of the conversation was centered around Louis and how wonderful he was.

Liz was talking about Louis when Paul felt something strange happening. He could feel behind him that someone was listening to their conversation. He looked in the mirror over Liz’s shoulder. There, at a table in the middle of the room, sat the woman passenger who had gotten on their plane late. She had a book in front of her, and in her ear was an earphone that looked like it belonged to a portable radio. Paul could see next to her purse something that looked like a radio, but it had no dial.

Liz saw his attention focused elsewhere. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Paul said with innocence in his voice but caution in his eyes. “I was just thinking how lucky Louis is.” Liz could tell something was up, but she didn’t know what. He needed to write her a note. “Do you have a pencil and paper? I’d like to write down your wedding date so I don’t forget.” Liz found the requested items in her purse, and Paul wrote.

“October 21st,” she said, watching him write. He finished and turned the note toward her. The note read: “The woman alone in the middle of the room is listening to us. She was on our plane.” Liz shuddered. She glanced up slightly and saw the woman in question. “Here,” Liz said deliberately, “let me write down the church name and address for you.” She wrote on Paul’s note: “I’ll handle this.” “There,” she said, “now you don’t have any excuse for not being there. Why don’t you go out and get some air, and I’ll leave the tip.” Paul nodded and left.

Bleary-eyed from her mad dash from California to catch the flight out of Chicago after Deep Poke’s phone call, Eugenie St. Clair had been trying hard to stay on track with her eavesdropping. She dipped her head and concentrated on her book as Paul walked past her table. She was about to take her earphone out and pack up when she was startled by the sudden presence of a guest at her table.

“Hi,” Liz said pointedly as she sat down next to Eugenie. She was about to confront her on the illegality of her eavesdropping when something stopped her. This woman looked familiar. “Sorry to intrude, but have we met? I know I’ve seen you before somewhere.”

Eugenie tried to keep her fluster to a minimum. “No, I don’t think—”

“Oh, now I remember!” Liz said. “It was two years ago in Cleveland. A Society of Professional Women in Journalism conference. You gave a very interesting talk on ethics in reporting.”

Eugenie stammered helplessly. She was worse than nailed.

“I’d love to get together with you and talk about that sometime,” Liz said. “How long will you be in Flagstaff?”

“... Not long. ... I’m visiting a friend.”

“Oh, too bad. Maybe I can call you at work when you get back. You’re at one of the Detroit papers, right? The Post?” Eugenie looked at her blankly. “Do you have a card?” Liz asked sweetly.

The only cards Eugenie had with her had only her pen name and the phone number of the Midnight Press. “No. Sorry.” She gathered herself to try an offensive maneuver of her own. She smiled politely. “So, what are you doing out here?”

Liz’s smile turned to ice. “Nice try.” She stood up. “And the next time you listen in on someone’s conversation, make sure you have the permission of at least one person involved. Or your could go to jail.” She smiled. “But then, you already know that.” Liz left, leaving Eugenie embarrassed and enraged.

Paul was waiting for Liz in the lobby. “What happened?”

She walked up to him triumphantly and took his arm, leading him to the front door. “I got her where she lived.”

******

Scholarly anticipation was overflowing in the Sullivan household that weekend. Harry was packing and getting ready for his first term at a small, prestigious college in Minnesota, and Scott got the scores back for his equivalency tests at Macklen High School. Scott’s high scores were balanced out by his complete lack of transcripts, so he would be a junior—again. Harry was excited about going to such a good school, but Scott elicited a round of laughter at the dinner table when he wondered out loud if those “quiet Midwestern book people” were ready for the likes of “rough-and-ready Wild West Harry Sullivan.”

Harry was traveling to Minnesota with a fellow student from Great Falls. The carefully laid-out plan called for Bud and Flo to drive Harry to Billings first thing Monday morning, Labor Day, and there he would meet up with his traveling companion and they would fly to Minneapolis.

As a farewell fete, another Sullivan family feast was scheduled for Saturday night. Nokay, his father, and his grandfather were also invited. Nokay had been reluctant when Scott had asked once if he could visit his home, so Scott let it drop. But Scott couldn’t imagine why Nokay didn’t want him to meet his family as he hit it off with the eldest Tall Man, a cheerful, wizened old man with a whispering voice and face creases that told of his many years on the prairie like the year rings on a tree. The old man was especially curious about Scott’s interest in the Crow language and customs. He asked Scott if he were part Indian, and Scott said he didn’t think he was. The old man smiled. “It must be in your heart. Skin color doesn’t make a man who he is.” He tapped his chest. “It’s inside.”

Scott smiled slightly. “I have some pretty interesting insides.”

The old man laughed. “I bet you do.” He tapped his chest again. “You’re strong. You’re a fighter. I remember, when I was your age, I rode in the Indian rodeo circuit. I met a man named Prentice. From Kansas. He was from one of those Eastern tribes.” He thought back through the years. “Fox?” Scott shuddered as the old man searched his memory. “No, Kickapoo, I think. You have people in Kansas?”

“No,” Scott said flatly.

“Too bad.” The old man smiled, the memories of 60 years ago reaching through the veil of time to warm his heart. “He was good.”

Bud got a phone call during the meal, and it was serious enough to pull him away from the festivities. He took a few notes, then came back to the group. “I need volunteers for tomorrow morning,” he said as the group quieted down. “That was Willie at the sheriff’s office. There’s been a car accident outside Macklen. Nobody was really hurt, but it seems a woman in one of the cars got hit in the head pretty bad or something, because she wandered off and took a little girl from the other car with her. They don’t really know what happened. The sheriff’s putting together search parties. People on horseback, foot, and cars. Everyone’s meeting tomorrow at dawn in Macklen.” 

Nearly everyone volunteered to help. Scott didn’t know how to get out of this gracefully, and Harry encouraged him until he reluctantly said he would go, too. The party broke up ahead of schedule so everyone could get to sleep. As he and his family left, Mike Sullivan joked with his little brother that now he would have a real Western story to tell everyone at his fancy Eastern college.

Bud, Harry, Nokay, and Scott arrived at the search party headquarters with the three-horse trailer as the first light of a tranquil Sunday was spreading out across the eastern horizon. Scott tried to stay calm as he and Nokay milled around at the edge of the crowd of volunteers. Two deputies chatted nearby, but no one seemed to notice him. But what bothered Scott even more than the law was the presence of no less than two TV news camera crews. Apparently the abducted little girl was the granddaughter of a Montana chief justice, and there was some concern that this might have been a deliberate kidnapping. The crews were filming the preparations, and Scott did his best to stay out of the way without being obvious.

When a good-sized crowd had gathered, the Garnet County sheriff, Jim Dale, stood up in the back of a pickup and organized the volunteers. Searchers were to be split up into several staging areas. Scott, Harry, and Nokay were assigned to the group heading north of town and told to cover an area of government-owned open pastureland. There weren’t enough portable radios for every group, so the boys decided they would be okay without one. The volunteers formed groups and took off for their various assignments.

Bud drove the boys north in a modest convoy, and as Scott and Nokay sat in the back of the pickup Scott was unhappy to see a TV news truck fall into the procession. He looked at the swelling dawn. If his luck held out, they could be on their way before there was enough light to film.

Scott’s luck did not hold out, and the sun was just above the horizon as the convoy stopped. The deputy in charge gave the volunteers simple maps and instructions on what to do if they found the missing woman and child. Scott watched with dread as the TV crew was already set up and filming them as they received their instructions. The three boys were on the other side of the group of riders from the news crew, and Scott pulled the wide brim of his hat low over his face. Every once in a while he would peek up at the camera crew, and they seemed to be ignoring him. Good.

The deputy finished by wishing the riders luck, and they split off into groups of two and three. Harry, Nokay, and Scott took their assigned route, and, out of the corner of his eye, Scott could see the TV crew filming them as they left. He kept his back to the camera, and soon they had ridden out of sight. He breathed a sigh of relief, then realized he had been so wrapped up in avoiding the news crew he had missed all the instructions and he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

For the first several hours, the three young men took their task quite seriously. The ground was hard and finding footprints would be difficult, but Nokay gave Scott a short course in what to look for. They fanned out and kept within sight of each other and the groups on either side, heading along the path traced on the map. They barely stopped for lunch, not wanting to waste time. Twice they saw something promising just over the next hill, but both times it turned out to be cattle grazing on the open range.

By the middle of the afternoon, the official posse of three had lost sight of the other groups of search-ers and they had quietly turned into a trio of teenage boys out on a wild goose chase. They kept heading north along the marked route, but they had seen no indication that any forms of life other than cattle, coyotes, and pronghorns had been through this way since spring. Their fanned search pattern narrowed gradually, and eventually they were riding together, talking and laughing. To relieve the monotony, they started reciting dialogue from adventures of the Firesign Theatre’s radio gumshoe, Nick Danger, and dubbed themselves the Nick Danger Patrol.

With about two hours of daylight left, they stopped at the crest of a hill in the rolling landscape and surveyed the way ahead. Nothing of interest beckoned. They stretched in their saddles and shared the last full canteen. They were three hours from the pick up sight on the map, but the lingering northern twilight would see them through the last hour after sunset. However, if they failed to show by the rendezvous deadline in four hours, the trucks and trailers would go back to Macklen and they would have to ride all the way back by themselves in the dark. It was time to quit, and they knew it.

“Well, it was a good try anyway,” Harry said as he handed the canteen to Scott. “You guys can do this again tomorrow.”

“You mean you’re going to leave all this?” Nokay said. Harry laughed. Scott took a swallow of the water, then closed the canteen. He reached out to hand it to Nokay, but his horse shifted at the key moment in the handoff and the canteen fell to the ground. Nokay chuckled. “Great hands there, Prentice.”

“I’ll get it,” Scott said and dismounted. He reached down for the canteen, but as he touched it, a strange energy flowed into his hand. It hung just above the ground, shimmering around his hand and wrist. He could feel it in his ankles, too. He felt as if he were wading in an invisible vapor. He blinked and tried to shake it off, but he couldn’t. It was unmistakable: It was fear. He looked around at the hard earth, his hand resting on the canteen to keep in touch with the energy trail. The flow led down the hill towards a hollow.

Harry and Nokay watched this with some interest. “What’s the matter?” Harry asked. “Is it stuck?”

Scott picked up the canteen thoughtfully and got back up on his horse. He looked down towards the draw, the shimmering trail of fear still visible in his mind’s eye. He didn’t know what to do. The woman and the little girl were down there somewhere—but did he dare tell his friends? He could never explain how he knew where they were. If he were responsible for rescuing them, his cover might be blown. He would be on the run again, by himself, with nowhere to go. There were even TV crews here, and they had filmed him. One false step, and ... The smart thing to do would be to let some other search party find the woman and little girl.

But as hard as Scott wanted to believe that one of the other search parties would find the missing pair, he knew deep inside that time was of the essence. The fear he had felt on the ground was wild, illogical. There was no plan to this kidnapping. There was definitely something wrong. He did not dare look at his companions. “... I think we should go down there.” He pointed to the hollow.

The others looked in the indicated direction. “Why?” Nokay asked.

“Um,” Scott said, “I think I saw something.”

“What?” Harry asked.

Scott shook his head vaguely. “I don’t know. Something.” He directed his horse towards the hollow, but no one else moved.

“Wait a minute,” Harry said. “What did it look like? Did it look like a cow, or a coyote, or a ‘57 Buick?”

“Like movement or something. I’m going down there.” Again Scott tried to leave, and again no one went with him.

“Scott,” Harry said with a squint, “we’re already going to be riding back in the dark. And this is an awfully long way from where the accident was. ... And I’m not entirely packed yet.” Nokay chuckled.

Scott held firm. “Okay, then you go home and pack.”

“Scott, you don’t know where you are. You’re not going to be able to get home.”

Scott looked up at the sky, then smiled slightly. “It’ll be clear tonight. I’ll find my way home with the stars.”

Nokay was smiling at Harry, who wasn’t happy about this.

Scott pointed off towards the hollow. “I’m going that way. If I don’t see you before you leave, have a great time in college.” He urged his horse on and started down the gentle slope.

An exasperated Harry looked at Nokay. “Say something useful.”

Nokay was still smiling at him. He gestured towards the hollow. “After you.”

Harry and Nokay caught up with Scott, and they rounded the turn into the hollow together. Scott was expecting to see something, but there was nothing there. The hollow curved along between the rolling hills. Had he imagined it? He got off his horse and took a few steps. There was a vague something, more like uneasiness. He dipped his hand down near his ankle as if sampling the waters of an invisible stream. Yes, there it was, although it was a bit more muddled now. Scott knew he was thinking too much and that was screwing things up. He shook his head and tried not to think.

Harry watched this skeptically, then looked at Nokay. “Scott’s getting a little weird.”

Nokay’s quiet smile was intact. “Hey, college boy, you go home. I’m with him.”

Scott stayed on the ground and led his horse into the hollow. Nokay followed, and, after a massive sigh, Harry fell in line.

A full hour of following the winding path later, the three hit a narrow junction. A small rocky ravine angled off to the left, and ahead lay another even smaller wash with high walls littered with unstable rocks. The horses would be hard-pressed to negotiate the ravine; the wash was impassible.

Scott was stumped. Everything was so muddled, he didn’t know what to do. He rubbed his hand on his boot to camouflage his sampling of the energy, but it didn’t help. Harry dismounted and appeared beside him with a consoling hand on his shoulder.

“Scott, you did your best. You really tried.” He looked up at the sky, and the colors of sunset were already beginning to gather above them. An evening chill was growing. Scott looked at Harry woefully, and Harry smiled. “‘Out of the fog, into the smog.’“

Scott shook his head with a faint smile. “‘Doggedly ...’“ Nokay barked on cue. Scott continued, “‘Ruthlessly ...’“

Harry scratched his chin in thought. “‘I wonder where Ruth is?’“

Scott sighed and gave in. Nokay turned his horse around, and Harry turned his horse to mount. Scott was in a spot that was too narrow for his horse to turn in comfortably, so led his horse further out into the small open area between the two paths to turn the animal around.

“Stop right there!” The woman’s frantic voice cut through the air and the three boys froze. Scott glanced around, but he couldn’t see where the voice had come from. He slowly took another step out into the open area.

“Stop!” Her voice was as brittle as glass. “I said stop!”

Scott whispered hoarsely back to Harry, “What’s her name? The woman?”

Harry stammered for a moment. “... Angie something.”

Scott leaned forward slightly. “Angie?”

“Don’t you come any closer!”

Scott followed the sound, then spotted her. She was peering out from behind a pile of rocks 25 feet away in the small wash, her sandy hair blending in with the rocks. Scott could see matted blood on the side of her head. But mostly he saw the wild, animal-like fear in her eyes. Reasoning with her was out. He called back hoarsely to Harry, “What’s the little girl’s name?”

“Tamara.”

Scott looked Angie in the eye, trying to fend off the overwhelming fear pouring from them. “Angie, is Tamara okay?”

“Yes! And you can’t have her!”

Scott looked into her eyes. Fear, bewilderment ... then Scott got it. In her confusion, she thought she was rescuing the child! He took a small step forward. “Angie ...”

The woman tottered back a few steps, revealing a frightened toddler clutched in her arms. “Stay back!” She stumbled on a boulder, and several small rocks rolled down the hill towards her. Scott froze. If she made a wrong move, she could bring down a ton of loose rock. He took a step back.

“Angie,” he said soothingly, “my name is Scott, and this is Harry, and Nokay. And we’re here to help you. Okay? You’ve done a very good job taking care of Tamara, and now we’re here to help you take care of her.”

Harry and Nokay were watching the scene in rapt silence, not daring to move. Angie eyed them suspiciously, then frowned at Scott. “I don’t need help. You get out of here.”

Scott frowned. It was desperation time. Could he do this? ... And how was he going to explain it afterwards? He flinched as a small stone tripped down the side of the wash and stopped near Angie’s feet. There was no more time to waste. He swallowed hard. “Angie, we’re here to help you, and we want you to know this. So I’m going to show you that I don’t have anything in my hands, and I’m not going to hurt you.” He held out of his hands straight towards her. “We’re all going to show you.” He called back to the others hoarsely, “Do it.” Not knowing what they were doing, Harry and Nokay obediently held up their hands towards Angie.

His camouflage in place, Scott locked his concentration on Angie. If it could work on a wounded mountain lion and a crazed yard dog, he prayed it would work on this frightened creature.

Angie looked at Scott for a long moment, and then the anger began to slip from her face. She looked down at the girl in her arms, then blinked in sodden bewilderment.

“Do you trust me?” Scott asked evenly.

She nodded slightly.

“Okay,” Scott said, “Harry is going to come up there and help you with Tamara, okay?”

Harry reacted with surprise as Scott looked back at him and nodded. Harry stepped away from his horse and walked slowly towards the woman, his arms still outstretched. He stepped cautiously up onto the rocks, then approached her with an encouraging smile. She looked at him dully, then as he came within reach she handed the little girl to him without saying a word. Harry took the girl securely, then put a gentle hand on Angie’s arm and led her back down to level ground.

Scott and Nokay started breathing again, and Nokay dismounted as Angie sat down in the middle of the small open area. “I’m so tired,” she said softly.

Scott knelt beside her. “I know. And you did a good job of making sure Tamara was safe.”

Nokay approached slowly. He gave Scott a secret, knowing nod, and they smiled at each other. Nokay knelt beside Angie and gingerly looked at the wound on her head. He blew out a sigh. “Boy, Angie, you sure take a licking and keep on ticking.” To their surprise, she laughed, and they all laughed with her.

******

Paul sat at the hotel bar, waiting for Liz to come back. She was calling the intermediary who was making the final arrangements for their meeting with the mysterious “starman woman” the next night. The television set over the bar was tuned to the national news, and Paul kept an eye on it out of habit. Liz came back and took the stool next to him.

“We’re on for 7:30. I’ve got the directions.” She looked at him earnestly. “Are you okay with this? You haven’t said much. We both know she’s probably not Jenny.”

Paul nodded. “I know.”

The story on the TV news switched to a three-county search in Montana for the missing granddaughter of a state chief justice.

Liz shrugged. “I’m not so sure now this is a good idea. What if this woman ‘recognizes’ you? It could be ...” She stopped when she saw Paul wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the TV screen, and he was smiling. She looked up at the TV and saw some news video of cowboys riding slowly away from the camera across open range.

Paul pointed at the TV. “That’s Scott.”

Liz looked at the TV screen. She couldn’t tell. It was from a distance, and it was just their backs. But the look on Paul’s face convinced her. He smiled at her, and whatever was going on, she knew all was well.

******

Once again an official posse of three, Scott, Harry, and Nokay rode slowly back to Macklen with their tired companions. Angie rode Nokay’s horse, and Nokay and Scott took turns leading her horse and riding Scott’s horse. Harry carried Tamara, who slept the whole way nestled in a makeshift sling he had made with his jacket.

It was a brilliant, clear night, and the fresh sliver of the moon dipped below the horizon before it could help light their way. The stars kept them company on their journey, and although both Nokay and Harry knew the area well enough to find their way home in the dark, Scott secretly traced their route by the celestial map overhead and always knew roughly where they were.

It was nearly four in the morning before the lights of Macklen twinkled a homing beacon before them. As they approached the town, they could see people milling around in the open center of town near the county sheriff’s office. “They must’ve known something was up when we didn’t come back,” Harry said. Sure enough, there were at least 50 people in various stages of 4 a.m. consciousness visible, and there was even a TV news truck parked next to the sheriff’s office.

Scott was beginning to regret his decision to go after Angie and Tamara as he looked at the scene below. “Harry,” he said as they rode side by side, “I want you to know this was your idea.”

Nokay looked at Scott with curiosity as Harry did a double take. “What? You were the one—”

“No,” Scott said quietly, “you were in charge. Hey, you’re the one who rescued Tamara.”

But Harry wouldn’t be flattered so easily. “Why do you want me to take the credit?”

“Because it’s important to me. I want ...” He searched for some words that would fit. “It’s kind of a way I can thank you.” Scott looked at his horse, then back at Harry. “I owe you so much. For everything. I don’t know how else to ...” Scott didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Harry scowled with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I got it. You don’t want to be on TV, do you? What is it? Are you afraid your parents are going to find you?”

Scott smiled, more than a little relieved at being offered this alternate excuse, then laughed a Nick Danger laugh. “‘You haven’t lost that delicate sense of humor, have you, Nancy?’“

Harry nodded. “Okay. I guess we can say you’re paying me back.”

“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Scott said.

Harry smiled, then laughed. “I guess. Besides, you owe me. I taught you everything you know.”

Scott smiled. “All the important stuff, anyway.” Scott looked at Nokay, who smiled with a knowing nod. Scott looked at the town before them and tried to prepare himself for the peril to come, praying that this would merely be a close call instead of a disaster.

As the riders came into view, a wave of excitement rolled through the waiting crowd, and soon the trio was awash in the energy of a triumphal return. Scott slipped quietly to the background as the sheriff, a sleepy Bud and Flo, and the TV news crew zeroed in on Harry and little Tamara, who was still sleeping in her sling. Nokay helped the somewhat more cogent Angie down from his horse, then, as people approached, Scott said his farewell and thanks to Nokay in Crow just loud enough for the others to hear and disappeared. He skirted around the activity and found the Sullivans’ pickup. His hands were shaking as he loaded his horse in the trailer, praying he had become invisible to the continuing excitement behind him. He crawled into the back of the pickup and realized he had done it. He curled up as his adrenalin ebbed, and a sweet sleepiness drifted over him.

Sometime later—Scott didn’t know how long—voices roused him and he heard the TV people walk past.

“Wasn’t there a third boy?”

“Somebody said it was another Indian. I guess he left.”

“You know how these Indians are. We’ve got enough on tape already ...”

Their voices faded as they walked away, and Scott smiled sleepily. He woke up when Bud and Flo loaded the other horses into the trailer. Nokay joined Scott in the back of the truck. He gave Scott a quiet, understanding smile. The couple merely smiled at Scott as they loaded the tired but beaming Harry into the truck’s cab, and the family went home.

Dawn was spreading across the sky as they arrived at the ranch, and Scott was awake enough to help Harry finish his packing—after all, it was his fault Harry was late. There wasn’t enough time to drive all the way to Billings to catch Harry’s flight, so Flo called and booked Harry on a commuter flight from Lewistown to Billings. With a final flourish and “hail the conquering hero,” the bleary-eyed Harry said his goodbyes and Bud drove him to Lewistown.

Flo and Scott watched them leave from the doorway. She put her arm around Scott as they sent a final wave along when the truck disappeared over the last rise. She smiled at Scott with a special look that mothers reserve for their favorite children. “Harry told us what you did, Scott. And I don’t know why you did that, letting Harry be the hero and all, but, ...” She smiled, then kissed him on the forehead. That was all the thanks Scott could have wanted. Then she paddled him on the butt and sent him to bed.

Scott crawled into his wonderful, warm bed, but even after such an intense 24 hours slumber did not come upon him as quickly as he wanted it to. It seemed there was something tossing and turning inside him, like a wild horse fighting a halter. He kept thinking about what had happened, and what he had done, and what he was apparently able to do. He was totally out of practice, and yet he had pulled off something he had never even seen his father do. It didn’t make any sense. How could he have felt where Angie and Tamara had been? He had never done anything that well before. The inner churning continued, and he got up and found his sphere in the sock drawer. He held it in his hand. It felt so good, so natural, a part of him. Strange. It must be lack of sleep, he thought. The oxygen was being cut off to his brain. He got back into bed and looked at the sphere for a long time. When sleep finally came upon him, it gave him no rest.

The dream eased in silently, starting only as vague images and colors. Scott knew he was asleep and dreaming, yet this realization did not wake him. The vague images blended together and he saw himself as a little boy, not yet four. He was sitting on the Lockharts’ living room floor, surrounded by building blocks. Eileen was sitting on the sofa, watching him with the delight of having this new child with them, and Kent was reading the newspaper. The image was unfamiliar but pleasant, and he smiled in his sleep. Then he was no longer watching the dream, he was in it.

He stacked the building blocks into a tower, but the tower fell over, sending blocks rolling across the living room carpet. One rolled halfway to the kitchen. Eileen smiled and shifted forward to stand. “I’ll get that for you.”

“No,” Scott said, “I have it.” He held out his hand, and with no effort at all the block rolled back to him and bounced into his hand.

Eileen’s eyes were like saucers as she stared at Scott. “My God ...” She started to tremble. “Kent, wait a minute. Look at this.”

Kent folded down the corner of the newspaper to look at his wife. “Hhm?”

There was a tremble in her voice. “Just look at this.” She turned to Scott and forced an eerie smile. “Scotty,” she said in a queer, baby-talk voice, “can you do that again?” Scott stared at her. He had never seen her act so strangely. “Scott,” she said, “roll the block out there where it was before and do that again.”

He obediently rolled the block towards the kitchen, and then held out his hand. The block returned to him just as he wanted it to.

Kent gasped and put the newspaper down. He got onto his hands and knees and took the block from Scott, examining it. He rolled it away, but it stayed where it stopped. He looked at Scott queerly. “Can you do that with any of these blocks?”

Scott wondered why they were acting so strangely. Eileen was now down on her knees, too, and they towered above him, scaring him.

Kent picked up another block and rolled it away in another direction. “Can you get that?” Scott held out his other hand and pulled the block back, handing it to Kent innocently. Kent dropped it as his hands began to shake. The husband and wife looked at each other, then stood up for a hushed conference. They were tall and frightening as they loomed over Scott, and he became scared, wondering what he had done wrong.

Eileen knelt beside him again—or, rather, over him—as Kent walked to the desk and opened a drawer. “Scott,” Eileen said firmly, “you must never do this again. Do you understand? If people see you doing this, they’ll take you away and we’ll never see you again.” Scott’s eyes filled with tears of fright. She repeated, “Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

Kent searched through the desk drawer, then found what he was looking for. He closed the drawer and started to walk away with the object, and Scott could see he was carrying his sphere. “That’s mine.”

Kent stopped and turned. “Yes, Scott, I know, but I’m going to put it in a special safe place for you right now and you can have it later.” He turned away and headed for the stairs.

Scott was angry. “No!” He held out his hand to retrieve his sphere from Kent, but Eileen took Scott’s hand with gentle firmness and held it between her hands.

“No, Scott,” she said resolutely. Scott reached out his other hand towards Kent before he disappeared up the stairs, but Eileen captured that hand, too, and held them both tightly in her grasp. “No, Scott, you can’t do that anymore.” Scott began to cry, and she picked him up and hugged him. “I’m sorry, you don’t understand.” She kissed him as he buried his face in the folds of her dress and angry tears ran down his face. “Someday maybe you’ll understand. You just can’t do things like that ...”

Scott sat up in bed abruptly, fighting to catch his breath. The afternoon Montana sun was beating down across his bed, and the bed linen was soaked in sweat. The dream clung to him more tightly than the sheets, and it took several moments for the images to die away before his eyes. He opened his hand and looked at the sphere. It wasn’t a dream. It was real. My God, he thought, I really do know how to do this ... don’t I?

Although fear had him by the throat, he had to test these perverse skills which he should have possessed but which instead possessed him. Could he actually do this on command, without a crisis to clear his mind? He got up and put on a bathrobe. He walked out into the hall. There was no sound in the house, and as he walked past the kitchen he could see through the window that both the car and truck were gone. He called out a greeting just to be safe, but there was no answer. He went into the living room.

He sat on the floor and pulled the box of little Peggy’s toys out from under the sofa. Building blocks. Might as well be poetic, he thought. He took one out and, after taking a thoughtful breath, rolled it across the floor. It bounced along, stopping about six feet away. Not sure what he wanted to happen, Scott held out his hand. The block was impervious to his mental coaxing. He took out his sphere and connected with it, almost surprised he could do it. He concentrated on the block. At first it only shuddered slightly, then, with a Herculean effort, the block turned over one step and stopped.

Thoroughly defeated, Scott put his sphere away and looked at the block. A large, bright red K stared at him. All the pain he had been suppressing over Kurt’s death came up, fresh as ever. Thoughts and emotions pushed up randomly, banging around inside his head. Why couldn’t he have been normal? So many bad things wouldn’t have happened. Why did his father ... cause him in the first place? He must have known any half-alien offspring would never have fit in. Or, Scott thought, why didn’t the Lockharts just throw his sphere away and never tell him? He wouldn’t have remembered, and nothing would have happened, and ... he could’ve been normal. But his father had, and the Lockharts hadn’t, and now he was stuck with this misfortune and it couldn’t even help him.

Scott took out his sphere and looked at it. This mysterious companion held so many secrets, yet remained so silent. A great hatred for it suddenly rushed up in him. For a moment he thought about riding out into the wild north pasture and throwing it into the prairie as far as he could. The sphere instantly looked sad and innocent to him. Was it alive? Could it read his thoughts? No. It was just a part of him. He chuckled bitterly at that. Just a part of him. Nothing special. Just a little Swiss Army knife from outer space. That’s all. A gift from his father.

Scott was beginning to feel like a freak. He stood up and left the room with determination. He put the sphere away in the back reaches of the sweater drawer, then took a long, hot shower. He let the blast of near-scalding water beat down on his head. He repeated in his thoughts: I don’t want to think anymore, I don’t want to remember, I just want to be here now ... I don’t care anymore.

With gentle inevitability, the hot water washed his body and soothed his troubled mind. Not even bothering to dry his hair, Scott went back to bed and slipped into the oblivion of sleep.

When Flo got home with the groceries, she wondered why the toy box was out and why a single block was lying on the floor. She put them away, then checked on the sleeping Scott. He looked so peaceful, she had to smile. He’s been through a lot in the last day, she thought. He deserves the rest. Work hard, play hard, sleep hard; how simple life is for kids. She smiled again and went off to put the groceries away and start dinner.

******

Liz drove the rental car up the winding road to the house. The sun had set as they left town, and as the night turned to indigo a brilliant sky full of stars unfolded above them.

Paul said nothing as they approached their destination. All he could think about was Evan’s comment that Jenny was probably living within a hundred miles of their original route. He had checked a map—this place was 56 miles from the meteor crater. Could it be Jenny? What would happen if this was her? Would they simply find out from Evan where Scott was, pick him up, and then the three of them would disappear together? Things would be better if they were all together, but they would still be on the run. Especially now with this book complicating things, they could be on the run for the rest of their lives. That was not what he had wanted for either Jenny or Scott. There were many delights in being a human—love, music, cheeseburgers—but there was also a heavy price to pay—pain, doubt, despair. He looked up at the magnificent sky. Everything on this planet seemed so endlessly complicated. Maybe he couldn’t belong here after all. His three-day visit hadn’t prepared him for how hard it would be to stay, to masquerade as another species, day in, day out, to become what he wasn’t. Maybe the best thing to do once Scott and Jenny were back together would be for him to leave again. He didn’t want to go, but if he had no other choice ...

He rubbed his eyes to drive the thoughts away. Where were they coming from, anyway? He took out his sphere and connected with it. Scott. He was battling his demons and losing. Paul sighed sadly. Scott’s crisis would get worse before it was over. He wanted to help his son, but this was something Scott would have to come through by himself. He hoped his son would make it.

Liz glanced at him. “What’s the matter?”

Paul put his sphere away. “Just thinking.” He tried to pull out of it and concentrate on the job ahead, but an air of melancholy uncertainty settled over the two of them.

They arrived at the house, which was situated on the top of a ridge. During the day it must have a spectacular view of the mountains. Now it had an unequaled panorama of the heavens above it. Liz and Paul got out of the car and headed for the front door.

There was a chill in the air, and the stark isolation of this place got to Liz. Wisps of pale smoke were drifting out of the chimney, and the house seemed painfully close to the sky. There was definitely something creepy about all of this. The timing of the meeting in particular wasn’t sitting well with her. Was this woman going to conduct some sort of strange ceremony by the light of the moon? Liz knew she should feel safe with Paul there, of all people, but all sorts of weird possibilities were coming to her mind. She shivered in spite of herself.

The door opened and a warm light spilled out onto the front walk. A silent backlit figure appeared on the doorway. Liz tried to keep her cool and Paul squinted to see the figure, but the light from inside was too bright. “Welcome”—the detached word drifted towards them as they approached the door.

As they reached the doorway, they were both surprised to see something other than what they expected. A silver-haired woman of 50 was smiling warmly at them. Dressed in dungarees that had a few paint splotches here and there, she looked rugged, artistic, and pleasant. “I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding your way up here.”

“Not at all,” Liz said, embarrassed that she felt relieved. The woman ushered them into the house, which was bright, airy, and had a comfortable Southwestern decor.

“I hope you don’t mind coming over so late,” she said. “I take care of my grandchildren during the day, and they’re quite a handful!”

She sat Liz and Paul in the living room by the glowing fire and offered them “coffee, tea, herb tea, mineral water, regular water, soda, milk, juice—we keep a pretty good supply up here!” Liz said yes to coffee, and Paul chose the intriguing-sounding “passion-guava” juice. Paul was beaming at this mystery woman as she fetched his drink from the kitchen. Once he had gotten over his disappointment that she wasn’t Jenny, he realized this woman had an absolutely wonderful energy around her. This was someone he would like to know.

As she poured the coffee, the woman said, “I hope you don’t mind my stipulation that you don’t use my name in your story. You know how it is—there are a lot of weirdoes out there. Just call me Evelyn. Whenever you’d like to start, I’m ready.”

Liz got her pen and notebook from her purse. “Yes,” she said tentatively, “I do have a question before we start. I understand you were particularly interested in meeting Paul. Why is that?”

Evelyn smiled and scrutinized Paul for a little longer than he felt comfortable about. “You don’t look at all how I imagined you.”

Paul tried not to react. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I guess I’m biased, but I wasn’t expecting you to be so handsome.” She smiled at him knowingly, and both Paul and Liz shifted anxiously. “I don’t know why. Madelyn did say you were a real piece of work.” She winked with an appreciative laugh.

“Madelyn?” Paul said.

“Madelyn Andrews-Carrughers?” Liz said. They looked at each other with surprise.

Evelyn smiled. “She’s my sister.”

They all laughed together.

Liz and Evelyn talked for more than an hour. Evelyn explained that she first came “in contact” with the starman when she was painting a landscape, but then suddenly she saw a face in her mind’s eye and she _had_ to paint it. She realized who it was immediately, and decided that it was her role in the scheme of things to give this being “a face for the world to see.” She said she had never had any other contact than the vision of his face on several occasions, but she recently had been privileged to “see” the starman’s child, and she had just completed the portrait of the two over the weekend. Both Paul and Liz wanted to see it, so she took them down to her studio.

“You’re the first people to see it,” Evelyn said as she led them down the narrow basement hallway to her studio. She stopped at a shelf next to a door and discovered she had left some paint tubes open. She opened the studio door and reached around inside to flip the light switch. “Go on in,” she said to Paul as she attended to the open paint tubes, and he stepped inside.

Paul glanced up as he entered the doorway and stopped with a gasp—on the opposite wall he saw a framed, full-length image of himself. He stepped back into the hallway and caught his breath as Liz looked at him with alarm. Evelyn grimaced an apology. “Oh, the window. I’m sorry, I should have warned you. That happens to people all the time.”

Evelyn walked into the large room, and Paul and Liz hesitantly followed her. Paul looked again at the disturbing image. But now he could see what he had seen wasn’t a framed painting—it was his own reflection in a full wall of windows “framed” by the open doorway. He took a grateful breath to calm himself as Liz smiled at the sight and realized what had happened. She patted him on the shoulder and whispered, “Hang in there, big guy.”

“I really should get curtains,” Evelyn said apologetically, “but I’m so used to that I don’t even think about it anymore.” She went over to a cloth-draped canvas still on the easel. “I haven’t signed it yet, but it’s done.” Paul and Liz stood together with mixed anticipation as she pulled back the cloth. On the canvas was a glowing portrait of a radiant, blond man with an equally radiant, blond young daughter. Paul and Liz regarded the portrait and clunked together slightly with shared relief.

Evelyn turned and looked at them with a proud smile. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Paul pulled out his camera. “Stand right there.”

Paul took several photos of her standing by her painting, then he took several more of her signing it. Then they went out to the patio and he took a series of shots of her sitting under the magnificent starry sky. He took several of the sky without her and without the flash, remembering what Stephanie had taught him about night photography, so if it was needed he could splice together her image with the background of stars. Evelyn didn’t understand what Paul was doing, so Liz explained. Liz smiled approvingly and gave Paul another pat on the arm as he joined them. “He’s one of the best there is.”

They talked by the fire for another hour, and then Evelyn’s husband came home. Cliff knew the rules—”first names only”—but he happily joined the conversation. Liz asked him how he felt about what his wife was doing, and he said it simply: “I love my wife, and I’m proud of her, no matter what.”

Liz asked Evelyn, “But deep down inside, doesn’t it bother you that this being doesn’t come from here? He’s totally different from anything you’ve ever known.”

She smiled. “Hasn’t God asked us to love our neighbors as ourselves? I don’t think it matters where our neighbors come from, as long as we respect each other and leave each other in peace. I think we humans need to grow up a lot when it comes to this kind of thing. On the one hand, we get very uppity and think no one else could possibly be as wonderful as we are. And on the other hand we think, ‘Oh, they’re from somewhere else, so they have to be so much better than we are.’ And I think that’s nonsense. I’m sure they’re not all monsters, and they’re not all messiahs, either. Look at the man in this book, and I don’t use the word ‘man’ loosely. He’s wonderful, but he’s not perfect.” She smiled. “He’s just someone I’d like to call a friend.”

When Paul and Liz left, she had her story: a caring and talented artist who was trying to help a friend she had never met—or thought she hadn’t.

******

Scott started 11th grade, again, Tuesday morning. The bus travel time wasn’t so bad and being thrust into the regulated world of high school was just what he wanted to keep his mind off other more troubling matters.

He hadn’t preregistered last semester with the others, so he chose his electives his first couple days. He took shop—working with his hands sounded like a good idea—and American Issues, which seemed to be some sort of civics class. Along with American History, Trigonometry, English, Science, and Phy. Ed., they rounded out his day.

Things shaped up well from the start. He got into a track class for Phy. Ed., his trig teacher was very entertaining, and he was even befriended somewhat by the Big Man On Campus, Billy McIlroy. At their first meeting Scott saw that Billy had all the earmarks of being a world-class bully, and he breathed a hefty sigh of relief when Billy designated him “friend” instead of “victim.” All Scott had to do was perform some obeisance once in a while and he would survive his time at this school.

About the only disappointment Scott had at first was that he hadn’t gotten into the Physics class (he didn’t have the prerequisites) and was instead put in the general science class. But there was an unexpected benefit to this. The teacher paired the boys and girls up alphabetically as lab partners, and he, as Scott Prentice, was put together with a pretty Indian girl named Melany Parsons. She was sweet and shy and laughed at all his jokes, and by the end of his first week the class he thought he would like the least turned out to be his favorite.

The Sullivans’ daughter Nell had a satellite dish and a VCR, and she taped all of the news reports regarding Harry and the rescue. When the family came over for a party to celebrate Harry, Scott, and Nokay’s achievement, Scott was pleased to see that he wasn’t identifiable in a single piece of footage. Flo had saved all of the newspaper stories, and a friend of hers had even sent a clipping from a Seattle paper. Once again, Scott’s participation had not been mentioned, and it looked as if he had gotten away with it—he chuckled to himself—scot-free.

Harry called home on Friday night and reported that life was wonderful. The schoolwork was challenging, but the story of the rescue had preceded him and he was the toast of the campus. During a private chat with Scott, he said, “Two of the frats are already trying to sign me up, and the girls! Wow! I mean, you’d die! They’re all over me! It’s great! Are you sure it’s okay I’m getting all the glory?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Hey, you’re the one who talked me into going along in the first place.”

“Yeah. ... Thanks, Scott. This is even better than being captain of the football team.”

Scott was still needed on the ranch, so every day he came home right after school and went to work. When his chores were done, it would be dinner, homework, and then usually bed. Weekends were filled with ranch work, so Scott had little time for a life outside of his routine.

Flo and Bud tried to get him off his treadmill, but he was determined to keep as busy as he could doing things that required all of his attention so he would do as little thinking as possible. Thinking only made him miserable. Given a quiet moment alone, he would see things he didn’t want to see, especially the confrontation with the Lockharts over his sphere on his 14th birthday that eventually resulted in the car accident. Scott understood now what painful, secret memories were triggered when he had seen his sphere again, but that did not make the memory easier to face.

He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about anything. He just wanted to be here now and let all that other business take care of itself. There would be plenty of time for that later.

******

Paul returned to Chicago with Liz. He oversaw the production of his photos as Liz interviewed several other “first name only” members of Friends of the Starman and wrote her story. Ed Tanney was thrilled with the piece in spite of his earlier misgivings, and he made it the cover story for the magazine’s next issue.

He brought Paul and Liz into his office as he was choosing which slide would be the cover shot. He gazed up at the projected image on his wall in the darkened room. It was Evelyn posing proudly beside her “starman and child” portrait. Ed shook his head with appreciation. “I don’t know how you do it, Forrester. It’s like magic.” Paul shifted in his chair as Ed clicked to the next slide, which was Evelyn posing under the stars. Ed shook his head again. “Magic.” He looked at Paul in the half-light. “You really captured her. Amazing. You absolutely got her, not being a nutcase and not being right.” He smiled at Paul. “You’ve really grown.” Ed clicked the image on to the next shot of Evelyn under the stars. “Ten years ago—even five years ago—you wouldn’t have been able to take this picture.” Paul and Liz shared a moment of disquiet. He backpedaled quickly, “Not that you weren’t good before, but ...” He crossed his arms in thought as he looked at his photographer. “Before your strong suit was composition and raw emotion. Now you go past the surface to get to the heart of people.” Liz smiled and patted Paul on the leg.

As Ed turned back to going through the slides, Paul said quietly, “You were going to give me a photo credit, right?”

Ed continued clicking through the slides. “Of course.”

Paul tried to sound casual. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Ed stopped and looked at Paul with a skeptical gaze, then frowned at Liz. “Baynes, ease up on his sedatives. He’s getting a little too docile.”

She nodded to Ed. “Getting the right combination is always tricky.” She smiled at Paul, and he decided to drop the subject. He concluded that at least George Fox would appreciate the irony of him being the photographer for the story.

During Paul’s stay in Chicago, Liz looked for Paul’s lost packet of mail, but no one seemed to know where it had ended up. Lauren’s office was now occupied by someone else who had no memory of seeing the envelope. Liz decided the best thing was for her to write to Mark and find out what was going on. She promised to let Paul know the answer as soon as possible.

Liz gave Paul her story to read when she finished it. It was an insightful piece about how people can come forward to help others. Friends of the Starman had emerged out of _Conversations_ discussion groups when people decided to do more than just talk about the book. A nationwide network of such groups had developed, and strangers had become friends united in a cause to write letters to legislators and help spread word about the book. According to Liz’s contacts, the Friends seemed to be having an unsettling effect on the government, and although the FSA staunchly rebuffed their “interference” in a case that did not officially exist, at least one policy shakeup had been reported as a result of the group’s efforts. Paul was intrigued by all of this and fascinated by the polarity of the human spirit, that a catalyst could inspire some persons to sympathy and support and provoke others to fear and hatred. Although he recognized the situation, it was something he did not completely understand. He hoped Scott could explain that to him someday, but he suspected it was something that could not be explained.

Paul got a call about a freelance photography job in Minneapolis. He wanted to go back to looking for Jenny, but Liz pointed out to him that with the _Conversations_ mess still going on having extra money in his pocket would help in riding it out. He accepted the job.

The night before he left town, Paul went out to dinner with Liz and her fiancé, Louis Jeffers. Paul could tell that Louis was as solid, caring, and dependable as Liz had said, and it was clear that he and Liz were crazy about each other. But as pleasant as Louis was, one thing about him became rather annoying to Paul during the evening: He always spoke to Paul in slow, clear tones, in obvious deference to Paul’s “head injury.” Paul was even contemplating doing something very Paul Forrester and propositioning the waitress in front of them just to show Louis he wasn’t brain dead, but he concluded it wasn’t worth the embarrassment. Besides, what if the waitress said yes?

As they parted company, Paul congratulated the two, then Liz gave Paul a special hug goodbye. “Keep in touch,” she said, then added significantly, “and stay out of trouble.”

******

George Fox sat on the front porch of a small rented cabin in the heart of the Green Mountains. The splendors of Vermont stretched out before him, hinting of the glorious autumn to come, but he saw none of the beauty. Being here was a serious mistake. The serenity of the landscape only made this worse. He was in agony, the agony of someone exiled for not being afraid to speak the truth to a nation of cowards.

Coming up here had seemed like a good idea at first. Some of the best times of his life had been spent in these mountains with his family when he was a boy. Back then, he had spent virtually ever waking moment outdoors, hiking, canoeing, his father had taught him fly fishing ... But that was so long ago. Now staying here was only reminding him of how much he had lost in his life. Being in exile wouldn’t have been so bad with a family along. Canoeing with a daughter, teaching fly fishing to the son he never had ...

So many losses. Betty had been the first, the first person who didn’t understand why what he was doing was so important. If only she had stayed, he knew the last 18 years wouldn’t have gone the way they had, he wouldn’t have ended up like this. She had been his support system, his strength, his calm reason. If only she had understood. She said she tried. He hadn’t believed her at the time. Maybe she had. It didn’t matter anymore. But if only she hadn’t left! Everything would have been so different! He was too abrupt. He knew it. He alienated people. He laughed at the word. Alienate! Yes, that was it. People treated _him_ like an alien. Betty had always settled him down, kept him in line. She knew how to win people over. She was his good half. And when she left ...

No. That was ancient history. He shook the thoughts out of his head and watched a hawk circle overhead. It seemed as if it had been 20 years since the last time he had noticed a bird on the wing. How graceful this hawk was, staying aloft with so little effort. He squinted in thought as he watched the raptor ride the wind. Bird, bird, there was something about a bird ... He frowned. That peregrine in California. He rubbed his forehead. Was it impossible to get this stuff out of his head?

He went back into the modest cabin that had been his home for the last month. A scene of domestic bliss it was not. The sink was full of dishes, the wastebasket was overflowing. He hadn’t eaten at the kitchen table since his arrival; it was stacked high with his personal notes from 617W and 617W-A. It totaled about 40 pounds of paper, and it was all from memory. But who needed a computer to store data? He had gone over the information more times than he could remember. It was part of him now. At first he had made an effort to put it into manuscript form. Writing his own book had seemed like the best revenge. But he never would have gotten it published. Most of the material was top secret. He would have been in a holding cell and his manuscript would have been “disappeared” in no time. So he just went over his notes, and over, and over ...

He was going to go nuts here, he knew it. But he was going to go nuts anyway, so here was as good as anywhere. He could see his life reduced to a filler item in a Montpelier newspaper about a deranged man found roaming the woods screaming that the aliens had landed; pending notification of next of kin, if anyone would claim him, he would be locked up in the state farm with the rest of the vegetables.

So many things about this case bothered him. Mostly it was the fact that virtually no one else had noticed that the thing calling itself Paul Forrester wasn’t the real Paul Forrester and wasn’t even human. Even friends of the dead photographer didn’t notice. That reporter, Liz Baynes, had. She was the one who had tipped George off in the first place. But then she backed out of her deal to help capture the alien. She even abetted his escape. What was wrong with her? His follow-up research had indicated she had been in love with Forrester. Didn’t she understand the alien had killed him? George shook his head. He didn’t get it. Why was it no one could see the truth? He concluded it was just as his father had told him: People see what they want to see. Thank goodness at least _he_ didn’t have that problem.

On top of the stack on the kitchen table was a back issue of a photographer’s trade magazine he had picked up after his “indefinite leave” began. The cover story was about Paul Forrester’s disappearance—the alien’s disappearance—in Omaha last year. He had gotten his own copy of the magazine because he couldn’t have the file copy or any photos of the alien from the 617W-A files, and he wanted some reminders of what he—it—looked like. He hadn’t read the article when it had gone into the case file. Why bother? It was about the wrong Forrester.

George aimlessly picked up the magazine and sat in a chair. He paged through it, his eyes coming to rest on Forrester’s face in the article’s layout. Well, it was only the real Forrester. It was easy for him to see the difference. Looking at this right face that now belonged to the wrong person made him feel even more cut off from his life. He fought off a shudder and started scanning the article. The life and times of a reprobate, he mused and shook his head. If anybody deserved what Forrester got, it certainly was this scoundrel.

He was about to toss the magazine aside when he saw it. At first he blinked a few times, not believing what he was seeing. He read the two paragraphs over again carefully, using a trembling finger to trace the words.

“Forrester himself also changed after the helicopter crash. Never one to live life halfway, Forrester BMH had a well-earned reputation as someone who could drink even the hardiest comrade under the table and then steal his girlfriend for the weekend. Rebellious and what one could only diplomatically refer to as ‘brash,’ Forrester could be a managing editor’s nightmare. Missed deadlines, wildly overspent budgets and donnybrooks in the field and office were all-too-common experiences for editors who hired Forrester when he was in ‘one of his phases.’ Talent alone saved Forrester’s career more than once.

“But AMH, many sources reported Forrester was soft-spoken, always on time, met every deadline, and even traveled with a teenage son no one had ever known about. ‘It was,’ as Forrester’s longtime friend, reporter Elizabeth Baynes, commented, ‘as if he had become a new person.’“

George scanned through the article and saw that “BMH” meant “Before Mount Hawthorne” and “AMH” stood for “After Mount Hawthorne.” He stared at the page. Finally! Someone else had noticed!

George gazed at this surprising boon for a long time, trying to decide what it meant. Just because someone else had seen the change in Forrester didn’t mean this article could be used against the alien. As far as everyone else was concerned, the revelation was merely an interesting piece of information in a story.

George tried to put this out of his mind, but this unexpected gift refused to fade into the background. His thinking was becoming focused again, and his random thoughts of “what if” dissipated as he realized there was a way to use this. If this writer had noticed the change in Forrester, surely there must have been others who had seen it as well. But no one was asking _why_. What they needed was someone to take them that one step further. George looked at the page and smiled triumphantly. For a moment, he thought he was going to cry. God, thank you. This was it. He could do it.

Spurred on by this new stimulus, George’s mind shifted into overdrive, and by midnight he had his plan laid out. There was a way to expose the alien without incurring the wrath of the government. If his plan worked, he would probably get his old job back with a promotion. It was so simple, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. All he had to do was accumulate enough evidence on his own, avoiding all top secret materials, to prove that Forrester wasn’t who—or what—he said he was. There was a three-year trail of unexplained phenomena that followed Forrester wherever he went. George knew that if he challenged Forrester with this in public, there would be no way the alien could explain it away. Identifying Forrester publicly had come up as a plan once during a staff meeting—Wylie, of all people, had suggested it—but both George and General Wade had vetoed it at the time. Wade didn’t want to alarm the country, and George had been afraid the alien would run amuck and start destroying the planet. But now George knew this was the only way. Its brilliance was matched only by its simplicity. Nail the alien, get his job back, and vindicate himself, all in one move.

As the new day’s first pale light spread across the sky, George knew he could be ready in about three days. He had already written down all the data he remembered from the case files over the last three years. That of course was everything in them. Now he had to separate the classified information from the information he could corroborate himself without his badge. Getting that verification would be his greatest challenge. He was used to people cooperating with him because they had to; now he was going to have to win their help with his underdeveloped sense of charm. He knew all the names, dates, information. He just had to get the people involved to talk with him again and confirm what he had. His itinerary would be a cinch to lay out; it would then be a matter of being ready to strike swiftly and without warning.

He opened the magazine to the page again and chuckled vindictively as he looked at Liz Baynes’s quote. Yes, Paul Forrester was a different person. She of all people should know. And how poetic. She who had identified the alien in the first place and then helped him escape, she had provided the first step towards his downfall.

******

Peter Harker was still working his way east along the route of the first starman chase, and he had finally reached Ashland, Wisconsin. He was gathering vivid stories of the fireball from the sky and the raging forest fire that had resulted from its impact, and people also remembered the bizarre influx of Army personnel who asked a lot of questions—but answered none.

Eugenie, meanwhile, took a couple days off to recover from her fast-paced tailing of Liz and Paul from Chicago to Arizona and back. Her frantic crosscountry trek had not been particularly useful, although once she was back in Chicago she found out Liz was doing a starman-related story. The fact that Paul seemed to be working with her on the story made this all the more interesting, but every instinct she had told her there was more to this than just a photographer muscling in on a federal agent’s case. She was convinced now that the teenage boy she had seen with Paul at that farm in Wisconsin was Scott Hayden, but that didn’t explain what was going on. Their parting had hardly been casual; there were obviously some significant emotional ties there.

Eugenie was developing a pet theory—it was a little too outlandish to tell anyone—that Paul Forrester, having somehow stumbled onto George Fox’s investigation, had found the child Fox was chasing and was now keeping the boy away from the FSA. But why? Was he offering the boy to the highest bidder? Surely the people at the Midnight Press would have been sounded out on a deal like that, and the editor had said nothing about such an offer. Maybe Forrester was putting the boy out on a market with much higher stakes. The Soviets were big on practical applications of extra sensory perception; they would definitely be interested in a kid with extraterrestrial-like powers, assuming this kid had something about him that would make people think he was part-alien. But would Forrester do something that mercenary? Sure, he was thoughtless and self-serving, but could he actually sell another human being? The other alternative was equally unlikely, that Forrester was keeping the boy safe and out of sight so he wouldn’t be exploited by the FSA. The Paul Forrester she knew certainly wasn’t that altruistic. No, there was more to this, and she was determined to figure out what it was.

In her Chicago hotel room, Eugenie made a note of these latest events in her cluttered reporter’s notebook—Deep Poke and his laptop computer be damned—and she called her unsavory computer genius for an update. She had asked him for a more in-depth look at Paul Forrester’s recent activities, and Deep Poke promised to deliver. “Anything new?” she asked him.

“Not much, really. I’ve looked in all the usual places, but I’m not finding much. I have noticed a curious detail: Forrester may not have a checking account. All his paychecks I’ve been able to find were cashed, not deposited. I haven’t been able to locate an active checking account for him so far. I went through his credit history, but he almost drops off the face of the earth after September 1986. A little stuff here and there, but nothing like the way he was throwing money around before. Maybe he got religion.”

“I doubt it,” Eugenie said. She mulled this over, not sure where to go from here. “We already know there’s some sort of connection between Paul and George Fox. Can you check on any possible link between Paul Forrester and What’s-His-Name, the author—Mark Shermin?”

“Beat you to it,” Deep Poke said and brought up a screenful of confidential data. “Mark Shermin works at a little college near Seattle call St. Costello’s. Sounds delightful, doesn’t it? His paychecks would starve a church mouse, but his book royalties are undoubtedly making him a very happy man. I found a curious coincidence—Forrester was issued a check by the St. Costello Art Department for an honorarium, dated January 5th of this year.”

Eugenie chewed long and hard on that. It meant something, she was sure—but what? “Why was he there?” she mused aloud. “Did he meet Mark Shermin? The art department. Huh.”

“My dear reporter,” Deep Poke said, “finding all that out is your job. Call me if you need another computer miracle.”

Eugenie caught the next available flight to Seattle. Under the guise of being a member of Friends of the Starman, she visited the St. Costello campus. She was disappointed to find out Mark Shermin was on sabbatical and the physics department secretary wasn’t sure where he was. She noted this in her fresh notebook—she was on her third now—and wondered if this might be another Salman Rushdie situation after all. She asked the secretary if she knew when Mark had written _Conversations with a Starman_ , but the secretary didn’t know.

Eugenie poked around the school for a few days and found out Paul Forrester had been on campus for a photojournalism show. She visited Madelyn Andrews-Carrughers, allegedly asking about Mark Shermin. A subtle and talented interviewer, she casually shifted the subject to Paul’s visit and found out from the art professor that Mark and Paul had met at the show’s opening reception and had spent several days together. Eugenie asked her what they had done together, but Madelyn answered that she thought it had to do with “basketball or something.”

From Madelyn Eugenie also gathered interesting insights into Paul and Scott’s father-son relationship. In her wildest dreams Eugenie could never have imagined Paul Forrester as a good father, but Madelyn painted a portrait that ran against all Eugenie’s expectations. The more Eugenie learned about Paul Forrester, she concluded, the less she realized she knew him.

St. Costello’s usefulness exhausted, she picked up where she had left off with her background work on George’s travels for Project 617W-A. Since Deep Poke still wasn’t able to crack the codes on the FSA operations files, she was back to pounding the pavement and hoping for a break. She had used up all the small towns, and so now she would start hitting the cities. Her only chance for some crumb of a lead was through the newspapers from the times of George’s visits. So, with a thermos full of coffee and enough snacks to last a week, Eugenie settled into the microfiche room of the Seattle Tribune to search backwards from September 18, 1986—the date of George Fox’s first travel budgeted to Project 617W-A —to see if she could find something interesting enough to bring George from Washington, D.C. in search of extraterrestrial life.

******

Scott was becoming quite attracted to Melany Parsons, and he found himself looking forward to every chance he had to see her. He had several chances a day, as in addition to being his lab partner in science class, she was also in his English and American Issues classes. Unfortunately, she had a different lunch hour, so he never had much of an opportunity to socialize with her.

Melany didn’t talk much about herself, and she was as shy as ever, even after they had gotten to know each other a bit through their classwork together. Scott knew she was Nokay’s cousin Melly, and she had been pleased to find out he was the Scott Nokay had spoken of with such admiration. She didn’t talk much about herself, and about all the personal information he had gotten out of her was that she and her grandmother, whom everyone referred to as Gran, had recently moved from the reservation and lived with Nokay, his father and grandfather in Bowman, and that this was her first year in this school. If Scott had thought about it, he might have thought she was hiding part of herself from view, but he had played that game for so long he could not see it in her.

A dance was coming up in a few weeks, and he was trying to get up the courage to ask her. The specter of Kelly Jordan and his painful departure from San Leon came to mind often. He had gotten over Kelly, but the way they parted had stayed with him. With Melany he knew the smart thing would be to keep a cool distance from her, and he was trying his best. But there was something about her, Scott didn’t know what it was, that made him feel all comfortable and nervous, and strong and giddy, and ... wonderful. He hoped he wasn’t heading for another heartache.

There was an interesting assortment of characters at Macklen High School, and most of the time Scott found it easy to stay in the background. Besides Billy McIlroy, who was the uncrowned king of the school, the most prominent member of the student body was Carrie Stebbens. She should have been a senior, but she had had to drop out during her junior year to have a baby. Back now as a junior, she was hardly the penitent unwed mother—she was the leader of _the_ clique at school and no one seemed to think the worse of her for her misbegotten pregnancy. Scott had picked up the scuttlebutt from a girl in his trigonometry class that Carrie had once been Billy McIlroy’s girlfriend, but it was generally known that he was not the father of her baby. Carrie had never given many details, and Scott’s source said Carrie had intimated that she had fallen for an older man she had met on one of her regular weekend trips to visit a maiden aunt in Bozeman and he had taken advantage of her.

While Billy called the shots with everyone else, he was in Carrie’s thrall. Billy followed her around sometimes, looking like a lost puppy who worshipped her in spite of everything. Theirs was a strange relationship. Even though they were no longer officially together as a couple (she toyed with him by keeping him at arm’s length), they were still _the_ twosome at school, with her relying on his clout to augment her powerbase and him willing to do anything to get back into her good graces.

Carrie was in Scott’s English class and lunch period, so he could see her in action every day. He thought she was somewhat pretty, but her looks were spoiled by a sly arrogance. She professed worldliness, but he could tell it was more show than substance. For Scott, she was in the same category as Billy McIlroy—a person best avoided.

However, avoiding Carrie was not easy for Scott as she had spotted him his first day in school and he had become an object of interest for her. Never one to be seen chasing a boy, she had her friends find out everything to be known about Scott and keep tabs on him. Scott was aware of all this covert activity, and although he tried to be flattered by it, to his surprise he found it rather annoying and he refused to play along. However, Carrie was not going to give up, so he had to live with it.

Scott usually had lunch with Josh Lewis, a transplanted New York City kid who had found his way to Macklen when his father took a job with the county as a civil engineer. Slight and introverted, and with no coordination to speak of, Josh had not adapted well to the demands of life in rural Montana. Josh preferred to stay by himself and he spent most of his free time in the computer lab. A science fiction fan, he was writing a story about an android private detective. Josh had latched on to Scott the second day of school, and Scott was surprised to find he had a lot in common with this misfit kid who didn’t quite belong.

One afternoon, Scott was spending his free period with Josh in the computer lab. Josh was showing Scott how he was writing his story on the computer, but he was too embarrassed to let Scott read his story. “I’m not a very good writer,” Josh said sadly.

“You have to practice,” Scott replied.

Josh frowned. “There’s more to it than that. You have to have a way with words. You have to make each one perfect. Here,” he said as he reached into his bookbag, “close your eyes, and let me read you something.” Scott dutifully closed his eyes and leaned back, waiting for the words to waft over him. “This is my favorite book,” Josh said, looking for the right page. “This guy’s really great, he’s concise and simple, but it’s really neat and says a lot. Kind of poetic. ... Oh, this is perfect. It’s the beginning. Okay.” He gathered himself to do the words justice. “‘Let me explain to you how I chose the name for my companion. For a long time I didn’t know what to call him. None of the usual words fit. He was an alien, yet ‘alien’ implied something foreign and unknown, and my companion was as familiar as a long-lost friend. I could call him ‘The Stranger,’ but again, he was no more ‘strange’ than a beautiful flower in an exotic garden. ‘Extraterrestrial’ would never do; that movie had already been done. He was a friend from beyond the stars, not a human, but more deserving of the title ‘man’ than most people on Earth. He was a ‘starman.’“

Scott’s eyes popped open and he sat up abruptly. He looked at Josh, who was startled by Scott’s sudden reaction. In Josh’s hands was a dog-eared copy of Conversations with a Starman.

“Want me to go on?” Josh asked.

“No no no,” Scott blathered, “I—I—um, I, I already know all that. Um, thank you, no.”

Josh scowled. “You didn’t just fall asleep, did you?” he snapped, mistaking the cause for Scott’s quick coverup.

“Of course not. I just ...” He gestured vaguely, trying to think of an excuse.

Josh pouted. “You think it’s dumb, don’t you?” He flashed with pride. “Well, I think it’s a great book. And I don’t care what you think.”

Scott nodded. “Yes, it is, you’re right. It just kind of ... surprised me, that’s all. I thought you were reading from a science fiction book.”

“Yeah, I don’t think this is fiction, either.” He nodded eagerly, a kindred spirit found at last. Josh’s eyes gleamed as he paged through the tattered volume. “Wouldn’t you love to meet this guy? I bet he’s really neat and powerful, and great with kids.”

Scott blinked at that last assessment. “Yeah, well, I’d put my money on it.”

Josh paged through the book. “Don’t you just love the part where he talks about—”

“—No!” Scott put his hand on the book, cutting Josh off. “Don’t.”

Josh eyed him questioningly, a little hurt. “Why not?”

Scott searched for the right way to answer this. “It has to do with a promise I made,” he replied quietly.

That didn’t answer Josh’s question. “What kind of promise?”

Again Scott had to search for the answer, but no alternative came to mind. He said in a hushed voice, “A promise to my dad.”

Josh suddenly realized he was intruding. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up anything bad.” He cast the book into his bag and the subject was dropped.

But the subject wasn’t dropped for Scott. He lay awake in bed that night, wondering if he would ever know what was in that book. He looked up at the sky, but a thick blanket of clouds was hiding the stars and keeping the night cold and murky. Scott wondered if maybe reading the book would help him get started with whatever it was that was going to happen to him. He rolled over angrily and jerked the blanket up over his shoulders. He had promised he wouldn’t read it. Besides, he was pretty much a lost cause by this point anyway. Maybe that’s why his father had sent him away. He turned over the other way with a fierce twist of the sheets. That was a lie and he knew it. God, why did life have to be so difficult? What had he done to deserve this, anyway? He thought about the Lockharts, and he thought about Kurt. The catalogue of his infamy was oppressive. Because of him, his mother had been a fugitive for 17 years, his father was back on a planet where he didn’t belong and was in danger of being dissected by federal scientists, the Lockharts were dead, Kurt Keitzer was dead ... The trifling good things he had done couldn’t stack up against all that.

He looked back out at the night. He wanted a sign, some indication that he was okay and he was going to get out of this in one piece. He smiled slightly, remembering explaining “in one piece” to his father. He looked over at the sweater drawer in his dresser. It was late. His father would probably be alone at this time of night. He retrieved his sphere and jumped back into bed. If ever there were a night when he needed his father in his pocket, this was it.

Scott was about to connect with his sphere when the hall light went on. He heard Bud cussing quietly with pain as he walked down the hall past Scott’s bedroom door, then back up again. Bud was pacing up and down the hall, and Scott sighed with disappointment. Bud had another one his leg cramps and was walking it out. He would be out there for a while. Scott looked at his sphere. He could do this later. He stretched out under the covers and held the sphere in his hand for a while, then tucked it under his pillow. He turned over and went to sleep.

In the night as Scott tossed and turned, the sphere came loose from its hiding place. It rolled off the edge of the bed and slipped silently into the snug berth of Scott’s left sneaker—from his old pair—which was tossed against the wall next to the bed’s headboard.

The next morning, Scott didn’t remember the sphere until he was finishing breakfast. It was Saturday, which meant Flo would be doing the laundry, and he didn’t want her to find the sphere in his bed, so before he went out into the north pasture with Bud and Nokay he went back to his room to put it away. When he didn’t find it, he spent a frantic hour tearing his room apart searching for it. Bud and Nokay left without him, and Flo offered to look for “whatever it was” he had lost so he could get to work, but Scott was beside himself. After another half hour, during which he even took the mattress and box spring off the bed frame, he finally gave up. His sphere was gone. He became sick to his stomach—was this the sign he had asked for the night before? He reluctantly left to join the others in the north pasture, shaken and upset. But he said nothing, and no one questioned him about it.

That evening when Scott returned home, he headed straight for his room. Flo had changed the bedding and straightened up the mess. His old sneakers were inside the closet, along with almost everything else he owned. He looked around some more, but it was no use. At dinner he broke his silence and asked Flo if she had seen his “ball bearing.” She asked with surprise if that was what all the fuss was about, then said she hadn’t. Scott didn’t mention it again.

Scott skipped the usual evening socializing after dinner, although he did come out of his room briefly for Harry’s weekly phone call. He lay in bed and wondered what the moral of this story was. Could he write Evan and tell him to ask his father to make him a new sphere? Could his father make a new one? His father had always been rather vague about that. It seemed to be more of the “you’ll know someday” information. He went to bed early and looked up at the sky. Passing clouds were reflecting, then obscuring, the moon’s cool light. He had to hope he hadn’t ruined his life somehow and there was a lesson in this. He drifted to sleep.

The dream that came was vivid and even more real than most of Scott’s days at school. In the dream, Scott “awoke” to find his father standing at the foot of his bed. Scott sat up, not surprised to see him there.

Paul was serious but not angry. “Scott, where’s your sphere?”

Scott nodded over to the closet. “It’s in my shoe.”

“Why is it there?”

“Because I didn’t take care of it,” was Scott’s matter-of-fact reply.

Paul looked at his son thoughtfully. “Scott, being who you are isn’t something you can do only when you feel like it. It’s what you are all the time. No one else has to know who you are, but you have to know. Even if you never use your sphere again, at least respect it and what it represents. It’s you. If you want to throw yourself away, that’s your choice. But don’t lose yourself through carelessness.”

Scott nodded, then asked quietly, “Dad, are you really here?”

“No.” Paul flashed a playful smile. “You don’t need me half as much as you think you do.”

Scott woke up in earnest as he sat upright in bed. His bed was bathed in silver moonlight, and for a moment he looked around for his father, gradually accepting that it had been a dream. He looked at the closet. He got out of bed and opened the closet door, kneeling by the shoes. He picked up the left sneaker, then reached inside. With a sigh of amazement and relief, he pulled out his sphere. He looked at it with appreciation, then clenched it tightly. “You are a part of me, Scott Hayden,” he whispered to himself with a smile. He put the sphere in his jeans pocket and went soundly to sleep.

******

Eugenie was nearly blind from four days of reading microfiches when she found what she was looking for. She almost missed it, but she had accidentally dropped the last bite of a cinnamon roll into the viewing well of the antiquated microfiche machine and was wiping up the smudge when she saw the magic phrase. It was the lead listing in the police report section of the August 16th edition of the Seattle Tribune, an item about a one-car traffic accident with a double fatality. Kent and Eileen Lock-hart of suburban Seattle had died the night before when their car ran off a winding stretch of road and smashed into a mountain riverbed, catching fire. But a third passenger, an unidentified 14-year-old boy, came out of the crash unhurt, and the sole witness to the event, who happened to be more than a little intoxicated, said the boy “walked out of the vehicle bathed in an eerie blue light.”

She searched through the column for the following several days, looking for a follow-up. There was only the smallest of notes in the August 20th police report section saying that the coroner had ruled the crash an accident. But here, at last, was the payoff. The surviving 14-year-old boy was identified as Scott Hayden, also of suburban Seattle.

Eugenie sat back and contemplated this discovery. If Scott was 14 in August 1986, he would be around 17 now. The boy she had seen with Paul Forrester in Wisconsin was probably 17. Okay, she could now assume that that had been Scott. But how did Forrester fit into all of this? There was something nagging at the back of her brain, something she was forgetting in all the papers she had gone through ... the lead story of the September 17th edition, the day before George Fox showed up in Seattle. Oh, God, of course! Mount Hawthorne was erupting! Of course Forrester was here. September 16th was the day of the helicopter crash, and the story of his return had broken on the 17th after the morning editions around the country had gone to press. So all the players were here, but they didn’t fit together. Fox was undoubtedly after Scott, but Paul was the ringer.

With renewed energy, Eugenie pulled up the September 18th edition of the Tribune to find the story about Paul Forrester’s miraculous escape from the volcano. She read it several times over, not sure what she was looking for. She gazed at the story, sorry she had no more of her cinnamon roll to drop on the projecting surface in the viewing well. If it had worked once, it might work again. What was she looking for? A pattern, a similarity, something to connect a kid in a car accident with a man in a chopper crash ...

She looked again at the lead paragraphs of the article about the helicopter crash.

“HAWTHORNE—Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer Paul Forrester, the subject of a massive manhunt after the helicopter he hired to fly over Mount Hawthorne crashed on the slopes of the erupting volcano Tuesday afternoon, surprised his would-be rescuers by turning up unhurt at search headquarters yesterday morning.

“Appearing dazed but physically uninjured, Forrester was carrying the seriously wounded pilot, Wes Southern of Bellevue. Forrester had apparently brought the injured man ...”

Paul was unhurt. So was the kid after his car accident. Others around them had been killed or seriously injured, but they were untouched. A couple of lucky guys, she thought. It was an interesting coincidence, but nothing terribly unusual. She already knew Paul Forrester had a talent for surviving dangerous situations. She recalled him telling her about getting shot in Vietnam and being bounced around in a bomb blast in Northern Ireland. She smiled slightly, remembering the guided tour he had given her of his scars the first time they ... She wiped the smile off her face and got back to the matters at hand. Paul had cheated death again last year when he had come through that attempted murder in Omaha intact. A little worse for wear, but still very much alive. It made complete sense that he could walk away from a helicopter crash, too.

She searched through the next week of the paper, looking for the follow-up interview with Paul. She was surprised when she didn’t find one. She couldn’t imagine him going through something like that and not milking it for all it was worth. She tried to remember back to that time and if any stories had come over the wire at the Detroit Post. She didn’t remember any, but as a reporter she didn’t go through the incoming wire stories very often, so if there was something it could easily have gotten past her.

She looked at the story about Paul’s escape for a long time, hoping for a last little detail to jump out at her. When none did, she put together her list of things to do: go over to the other newspaper’s offices to see if Paul had given them an exclusive interview, find the helicopter pilot, and find out what happened to Scott Hayden after the car accident.

She was putting her notes away and picking up her belongings when that overlooked detail she had hoped for hit her square between the eyes and made her drop everything. If Scott Hayden was 14 in the middle of August 1986, ... She pulled out her notebook and checked on the birth date Deep Poke had found on Scott Hayden’s California drivers license: August 14, 1972. With shaking hands, she found her checkbook calendar and counted back nine months from August 14 to November 15, the last day of the massive cross-country alien hunt. Her mouth fell open. With the leap year, Scott Hayden was born nine months to the day after the chase had ended in Arizona. There were thousands of other kids who could also make that claim, but how many of them had been seen walking out of a burning automobile bathed in “an eerie blue light”? Her hands started shaking. Jesus Christ. This wasn’t funny anymore. This wasn’t just a crazy tabloid story. ... This was real.

She gathered herself as best she could and left with a renewed energy fueled by a low-level terror.

******

Paul was finishing up his assignment in Minneapolis and looking forward to picking up his search for Jenny. The story he had taken photos to accompany was on an innovative new method of tree farming, and Paul was happy to have work that was neither dangerous nor high-profile.

His highest priority was finding Jenny, so, after writing to Evan and Stephanie to tell them where he was going, he left the Twin Cities and headed northeast, picking up where he left off.

******

One afternoon, Scott’s track class was rained out and the gym was otherwise engaged, so the track students were turned loose in the library. Scott had no homework to do, so he wandered through the room in search of something to occupy his time. He spotted Melany in a lounge area, curled up in one of the chairs with a fluffy magazine. He smiled in spite of himself and decided she looked as if she wouldn’t mind being interrupted. When he approached, she smiled at him. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“We got rained out.”

She nodded. “You look disappointed.”

“Yeah. I like track. ... Can I join you?”

“Sure.”

He sat in the lounge chair next to her, and she shyly went back to her reading. Tongue-tied, he looked at her for a moment, then looked for a diversion and opened his school bag. Nothing looked appealing, so he closed it again and set it on the floor next to her backpack. Her pack was open, and he noticed on top of the books inside was a copy of Huckleberry Finn. That seemed strange to him, considering they were in the same English class and they were currently studying Parzival. He looked at her again, and he saw to his surprise that she wasn’t reading the fluffy magazine. She had a substantial volume hidden behind it. He looked closer and saw it was a history of the Crow people. She saw him looking at her and quickly covered the book with the magazine. She eyed him with annoyance.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But why are you hiding that book?”

She glanced around the room. “It’s nobody else’s business, okay?” She closed the heavy volume and slipped it into her backpack. She held up the magazine as if she were reading it, but she didn’t look at the pages. “... I didn’t learn any of this stuff when I was growing up. And it’s kind of embarrassing to admit you don’t know who you are, you know?”

He nodded, almost smiling. “What about Huckleberry Finn?”

Her eyes flashed with embarrassed irritation as she closed the flap on her backpack. “It’s an important book and I wanted to read it.”

“Why didn’t you just wait until next year? It’s on the senior reading list.”

She threw up a smokescreen of anger and tried to read the fluffy magazine. “Why do you care?”

Scott was seeing her in a new light. “I don’t know why you don’t want people to think you’re smart.”

She was surprised by that. “I’m not smart.” She tried to hide behind the magazine again. As a mumbled afterthought, she said, “I just like to read.”

Scott pondered that and looked around, but he stopped his idle scanning of the room when he saw Carrie Stebbens peering at them coolly from across the room. He glanced at Melany, and he could tell she was extremely aware of Carrie watching her and was trying to become invisible. He could feel an unsettling energy flowing between them, and he knew, reluctantly, that he was a part of it somehow. Getting invisible seemed like a good idea. Without saying another word, and under Carrie’s disapproving gaze, he took out his copy of Parzival and started to read. When the period ended, he and Melany exchanged the slightest of greetings before going off to their next classes. Scott could tell Carrie was watching all this, but when he looked at her, she turned and walked away.

******

Eugenie spent the rest of the week doing exhaustive—and exhausting—background research on Scott Hayden. Using tax charts from 1986, she located Kent and Eileen Lockharts’ old house. She visited the neighborhood grade school and middle school and, under the guise of being Scott’s long-lost aunt trying to track him down, she interviewed Scott’s teachers. Once again employing her talents as an interviewer, Eugenie quickly abandoned the supposed subject of tracking Scott down in favor of eliciting background information about his life. She found out he was a good kid and an above-average student, and there was nothing unusual about his personality.

Scott’s third-grade teacher remembered breaking up a playground fight between Scott and one of the other boys who had been taunting him about not having “real” parents. The teacher said she had called in the Lockharts to talk about this, and they had revealed to her that Scott’s father was dead and his mother had been forced to give the boy up. Eugenie asked her if Scott’s mother had given him away because of economic or personal problems, but the teacher said she didn’t know. Eugenie asked her if Scott had been legally adopted by the Lockharts, but she didn’t know that, either. Eugenie made a note to have Deep Poke track that possible paper trail down.

Scott’s fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Hobart, told an interesting story that captured Eugenie’s attention. Mrs. Hobart said that one of her students last year was the younger sister of one of Scott’s good friends, Tim Kilpatrick. Mrs. Hobart explained that Tim, who had also been her student the same year as Scott, had been in a car accident last August and he was in a coma for several months. He had come out of it just before New Year’s, and Rebecca Kilpatrick returned from Christmas vacation with an amazing story about Tim’s miraculous recovery. Rebecca reported that just as the doctors were giving up hope for her brother, Scott Hayden appeared from out of nowhere at the hospital. He was alone with Tim for no more than five minutes, and before Scott dis-appeared again without a trace Tim was waking up.

As for usable photos of Scott, his grade school and middle school didn’t have yearbooks as such. His grade school did have class photos, and Eugenie hoped his most recent photo—from sixth grade—would resemble him now. But Scott had been out sick when that class photo was taken. The most recent class photo Scott was in was fifth grade. It was a good image, and Mrs. Hobart said that aside from the obvious physical changes of adolescence she didn’t think Scott had changed that much. When Eugenie tried to get a copy of the photo from Mrs. Hobart, however, the teacher did not want to part with her original and instead made her a photocopy. Although the image was still clear, a photocopy would never reproduce in a newspaper. Eugenie could not explain why the photocopy was useless to her, so she accepted it with a polite smile and thank you.

Eugenie got from Mrs. Hobart a list of Scott’s friends, including the Kilpatricks, the Lins, and the Greenwalds. She visited the Greenwalds first, and she had a long, friendly chat with Mr. and Mrs. Greenwald. The couple was happy to meet a relative trying to find Scott and gave Eugenie another version on the positive image of Scott she had already gathered. The new information Eugenie gained from the Greenwalds was that Scott had not been legally adopted by the Lockharts. They didn’t know why; all they knew was that Kent and Eileen had never met Jenny—Eugenie smiled at the confirmation that Jennifer Hayden was Scott’s mother—and that all anyone knew about his parents was their names, that they were from Wisconsin, and his late father had been a house painter. Eugenie smiled and nodded, pretending to know all this new information that she would already have known as Scott’s aunt.

Eugenie asked them if they had any spare photos of Scott that she could keep, and the friendly couple found a snapshot their son Mike had taken during a camping trip three weeks before the Lockharts’ accident. The photo was clear, and it was a good, full-front shot of Scott. The reporter offered a silent prayer of thanks. Finally, an image she could use. Eugenie accepted the photo graciously and tucked it in her purse.

As she was asking them about the story of Scott’s strange visit to Tim in the hospital, Mike Greenwald and Tim Kilpatrick came through on their way to a pickup basketball game at the local park. Mike headed to his room to change into sweatclothes as Tim lingered on the fringe of the discussion in the living room. Eugenie tried to engage him in the conversation, but he balked at talking about his close encounter with death. The reporter noticed the boy seemed uneasy with her and was examining her with more than a general interest, so she backed off and packed up her notebook, wrapping up her chat with the Greenwalds. After leaving the house, she headed straight to the Kilpatricks, wanting to get in and out before Tim came home. However, when she got there no one was home. She waited for nearly an hour, then left as she saw Tim walking down the sidewalk. She drove away before he saw her and decided to try again tomorrow.

Eugenie’s desire to interview the Kilpatricks with Tim not around proved to be a good instinct, but her timing did not serve her well. When she headed for the home the next afternoon, she drove past the park first, and when she saw Tim was playing basketball, she made a beeline for the Kilpatricks. No more than 10 minutes into the chat with Mrs. Kilpatrick, however, Tim and Billy Lin came in from the game.

Mrs. Kilpatrick said to her son, “Tim, this is Anne Hayden. She’s Scott’s aunt. She’s getting information on him so she can find him.”

Tim frowned at the reporter, and Billy looked at her with surprise. Billy remembered the discussion during Scott and Paul’s visit to be wary of strangers asking questions about them, and he fumbled for an excuse to get out of the room and warn Tim. “Um, excuse us, Mrs. Kilpatrick,” he said, taking a hold of his wrist, “I hurt my wrist during the game and we need to put ice on it right away.”

Tim looked at his friend curiously, but Billy’s urgent nod towards the kitchen conveyed the message to go along with it. Tim said as he and Billy headed for the kitchen, “Mom, where’s the ice pack?”

“In the shelf over the refrigerator, where it always is,” she said as they disappeared.

Eugenie knew something was going on. She quickly reviewed everything she had done since she had arrived in Seattle; she hadn’t compromised her cover, so she decided it was probably safe enough to stay. She switched the topic of conversation to Scott’s visit at the hospital, and Mrs. Kilpatrick recalled the situation with deep-felt gratitude.

When the boys emerged from the kitchen several minutes later, Eugenie noticed that they were playing out their diversion, with Tim holding two glasses of soda in his hands and Billy was holding an ice pack to his wrist. Billy sat in a chair next to Tim’s mother, and Tim handed Billy his drink before he sat on the sofa next to Eugenie. The reporter’s defense alarms went off, but she was into the conversation too far to pull out abruptly now. She instinctively shifted her purse from the sofa on the side closest to Tim to the floor on the other side of her feet.

Mrs. Kilpatrick looked at her son. “Anne’s been asking about when Scott visited you in the hospital. She said Mrs. Hobart told her all about it.”

Tim regarded Eugenie distantly, and the reporter noticed for the first time that Tim was quite tall as he looked down at her. “So you’re Scott’s aunt, huh?” Eugenie nodded. “I have a question.”

Eugenie shrugged, bracing herself.

“Why did Scott’s mom give him to strangers to raise instead of to you?”

Eugenie noticed Billy lean forward attentively and Mrs. Kilpatrick react thoughtfully. “I was living in Europe at the time everything happened,” she said, thinking she sounded convincing. “I guess she never thought about me.”

“That seems kind of weird, doesn’t it?” Tim went on. “Wouldn’t you think she’d give her only child away to somebody she knew? Especially keep him in the family if she could.”

“I don’t know,” Eugenie said. “I don’t know why Jenny did what she did. We were all very surprised.”

“And how come you’re looking for him now?” Tim said. “Why weren’t you looking for him as soon as he disappeared?”

Eugenie saw the others were looking at her intently. An easy lie did not come to mind in time, so she knew it was time to bail out. She put her notebook back in her purse. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m upsetting you. I shouldn’t have asked about your accident. I was just curious—”

“Who are you?” came Tim’s blunt question.

Mrs. Kilpatrick was nonplused by her son’s bad manners. “Tim, what is your problem? She’s a guest in our house.”

Eugenie was in trouble and she knew it, but she could get out the door if she kept her wits about her. Her only hope was to play to Mrs. Kilpatrick’s good manners and hospitality. “I’m Scott’s aunt.” She picked up her purse and stood up. She said to Mrs. Kilpatrick, “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I didn’t mean—”

Tim stood up with her. “Another thing. Your notebook. I noticed it yesterday. I’ve been thinking about it. It’s a very distinctive shape. Long and narrow. I couldn’t remember where I’d seen one before. Then I remembered Betsy got one just like it when she started at the school newspaper.” He looked at his mother and Billy significantly. “It’s a reporter’s notebook.” Mrs. Kilpatrick reacted with alarm. Tim squinted at Eugenie, his anger unmistakable. “If you’re Scott’s aunt, I’d like to see some identification, please.”

Eugenie knew she had to get out of the house as soon as possible. She tried again to play on Mrs. Kilpatrick’s sense of propriety. “I’m sorry, I guess I went about this the wrong way. I just wanted to learn everything I could about Scott. I never really had a chance to know him. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was coming on too strong. It’s just I want to find him.” She stood up meekly, trying to look apologetic and hurt.

She headed for the door, but Tim stopped her. “Wait a minute. Mrs. Greenwald said she gave you a photo of Scott.”

Eugenie faced him as innocently as she could. She was developing a burning dislike for this brat. Did these people tell each other everything? Besides, she was annoyed at herself for being foolish enough to leave the photo in her purse. “Yes, they gave me a picture.”

Tim stood his ground. “You better give it back.”

Eugenie was in no mood to back down. As far as she was concerned, she had every right to keep it. She glanced at Mrs. Kilpatrick as sadly as she could. “Please,” she said, trying to put a pathetic tremble in her voice, “they gave it to me so I could recognize him when I find him. It’s the only photo I have.”

But Eugenie’s ploy failed. Mrs. Kilpatrick eyed her with steely anger. “Marge wouldn’t have given you the photo if she’d known you were lying.”

The gig was up. Eugenie could deny she had the photo on her, but that would probably invite Tim to grab her purse and have a look for himself. Giving one last sigh of innocence, Eugenie surrendered the snapshot. “I’m sorry you don’t understand. All I want to do is help Scott.”

Mrs. Kilpatrick said simply, “I think you should leave now.”

Eugenie left, her humble pose intact until she was out of view. As she drove out of the neighborhood, she cursed her bad luck and that tight-knit network of friends. There was no use trying any of the other families now. It was time to cut her losses. Once she calmed down, she decided to continue down her checklist and find the helicopter pilot who had flown Paul into the mouth of Mount Hawthorne.

******

Scott was trying to keep his cool around Melany, but it was a struggle. He noticed she didn’t belong to one of the school’s cliques, and it was clear to him that Carrie Stebbens had taken a fierce dislike of her. He wondered if it was because of jealousy over him, but he figured he was probably flattering himself.

In a moment of weakness Scott asked Nokay about Melany, but all Nokay said was that she and her grandmother had moved in with them over the summer and Melany was a good kid and her grandmother was a raging bitch. Scott asked if he could come over for a “spontaneous” visit some night, but Nokay vetoed it. “Not when her grandmother’s around. That woman’s nuts. She hates everybody. We only let her live with us because we like Melany.” Scott decided this was probably for the best. This way he wouldn’t get too close to her. Besides, if she got the idea that he liked her, that might encourage her to like him. That would be a mistake. It would be better this way. Just keep things friendly. Keep things cool.

However, if Scott had not been so preoccupied with his seesaw struggle over seeing more of Melany/keeping his distance from her, he would have seen that his efforts to discourage any interest she might have in him were already too late. He did not see, for instance, that after he had complimented a pair of earrings she wore once that she wore them every day after that. He did not notice that she was lingering in their between-class chats just as much as he was. He did not realize that she shared thoughts and secrets with him that she told no one else. In his preoccupation, he also did not see that she was becoming quietly disheartened by his apparent indifference to her, and she was doing a seesaw battle of her own between trying to get his attention and getting him out of her system. They suffered side-by-side in lonely silence.

In another moment of weakness (he had many), Scott finally figured out the perfect plan to spend time with her after school. Their science teacher had given the students an assignment of creating and completing their own science project. He left the subject matter open, and Scott had the ideal project. He was going to compare the rate of shooting stars per hour during an upcoming meteor shower versus the rate per hour during a non-meteor shower period. The project wasn’t so difficult that Melany (who had stated she was a “science dummy”) would feel left out, it involved being together after school, and best of all, they would be alone out away from the ranch lights to get the best meteor viewing conditions. He had no ulterior motives. Of course not. They had a science project to complete. This was homework. No problem. He gave no thought to any difficulties or temptations that might arise from them being alone together. In the dark. Out in the middle of nowhere.

When Scott finally proposed the idea to her one Friday in the hall between classes, he was somewhat surprised by her subdued reaction. In fact, she had been especially quiet for a couple of days. “When would we be doing this?” she asked in a low voice.

Scott shrugged. “Clear nights.”

She thought for another moment, then eyed him warily. “Where?”

“At the Sullivans’. A quarter of a mile from the house and you’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

She didn’t seem satisfied with this. “Just watch the meteors.”

“Yeah. Well, and talk. Meteor showers aren’t that exciting.”

After another suspicious moment, she nodded and let loose a smile that melted Scott’s heart. “Okay. When do you want to do this?”

“Well, there is one catch.”

Melany’s face turned to lead, and Scott wondered what he had said. “What kind of catch?” she said.

“We have to go out when there’s a meteor shower.”

She relaxed visibly. “Oh. When’s that?”

He grimaced slightly. “There’s a really good one in December.”

She frowned at that. “You want me to sit out in the middle of a field in December? You don’t know what last winter was like.”

“Well, we can have lots of blankets and hot chocolate, and,” he smiled impishly, “we could make it a regular picnic.”

She smiled slightly, but she wasn’t sold. “Is there some other meteor shower that isn’t as good that’s a little sooner?”

He nodded. “There’s one in a couple weeks. But the one in December really is the best.”

She shook her head slightly with a smile. “You’re crazy.” She looked up at the hall clock, then started to leave. “I have to go. Oh, Uncle Ed’s driving me to a doctor’s appointment after school, so I won’t see you at the bus stop today.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s just a checkup.” Her smile lingered on him. “See you Monday.” She turned and disappeared into the crowd, but Scott didn’t move, lost in the moment. Then he remembered he hadn’t asked her about the dance next week and wanted to kick himself. He wouldn’t see her again for the rest of the day, and he didn’t want to wait until Monday to ask her. Leaving a note in her locker seemed tacky, but it was the only option he could think off. He found her locker and wrote as eloquent an invitation as he could on short notice and slipped it through the vent. Renewed, he went off to the tutoring room.

Part of Scott’s obeisance to the Billy McIlroy gang was helping Stan Henshaw, the younger of the Henshaw brothers, with his math. An able-bodied linebacker on the Macklen High School football team, Stan was sometimes crude and he was not academically gifted, but he was affable and grateful for the algebra help, having flunked out the year before. He wasn’t quick but he tried hard, and Scott found himself enjoying their tutoring sessions on Thursdays and Fridays.

They were going over multiplication and division of fractions when Stan’s brain hit the saturation point and he needed a break. He talked about the game coming up after school that afternoon, and then the conversation switched to the cheerleaders and how many of them Billy McIlroy had “coached.” Scott wasn’t interested in this, but he was smart enough to listen politely.

“So,” Stan said, “how’s your ‘lab partner’?” He giggled heavily.

“What?” Scott didn’t understand the question.

“I hear she’s really something. You gotten in her pants yet?”

After a stunned moment, Scott tried to figure out a diplomatic response. “Ah, no. What do you mean you hear ...”

“Everyone’s talking about it,” he said. “I guess a couple days ago in the shower after the girls’ gym class—wouldn’t you like to see that!—someone saw her scars. Guess she got snipped, you know? I heard that’s why she had to leave the reservation—she’d gone through all the men and she was looking for fresh meat!”

Scott was getting angry, but he didn’t know at whom. He wanted to punch Stan, but he didn’t dare. He said as evenly as he could, “That sounds like a stupid rumor to me.”

Stan giggled again. “What’s the matter, haven’t gotten your piece of the pie yet?”

Scott stood up as Stan continued to giggle. He had to get out of there. “I think we better quit now. We don’t want to burn out your brain before the game.”

Stan thought that sounded like a good idea and Scott took off to find some fresh air. He went out through the doors which led to the playing fields. Students were allowed to congregate during free periods at some picnic tables in a grassy area there, and he saw a couple girls chatting at one of the tables. He took a few deep breaths of the prairie air, trying to clear his mind. How could this horrible lie have gotten started? It had to be a lie ... He noticed the girls at the picnic table were looking at him, and then they giggled together and left. This was a nightmare. He had to think through this calmly. There had to be a logical explanation and an equally logical solution. There had to be.

The confused thoughts were still with Scott as he waited for his bus after school. Most of the students were staying behind to take buses to the football game against a school in the next county, so there weren’t many waiting with him.

He shuddered when a heavy hand descended on his shoulder, but he relaxed when he saw it was only Billy McIlroy condescending to greet him. “Hey, Prentice, not staying for the game?”

“No, sorry. I have work to do.”

Billy smiled wickedly. “I bet it’s ‘homework’ with Melany Parsons, huh?”

“No. Ranchwork.” He was about to say where Melany was, but he shuddered when he remembered it was a doctor’s appointment. She couldn’t ... He tried to shake it off. No. It couldn’t be true. Not her.

“Well, too bad,” he said and stepped away. “But I want you to ‘introduce’ me to her, okay? I have my reputation to maintain.” He laughed and walked off.

Scott wrestled with this nightmare the whole way home, and he wasn’t much use doing his chores. He knew Melany couldn’t be what they were thinking, she couldn’t be ... could she? He was embarrassed to harbor doubts. Well, either way, he would find out soon enough.

That night as they finished dinner, Scott somberly told Bud and Flo that he might get a phone call from a girl at school so if he wasn’t there they should take a message.

They both smiled slightly. “Who is it?” Flo asked.

“Somebody I asked to the dance next week.” He should have had some enthusiasm as he answered, but his dilemma showed on his face.

“Well, I may be old and not remember things right,” Bud said, “but it seems to me when I was young and I invited a girl to a dance I was kind of excited about it.”

Scott replied seriously, “It’s complicated.”

“What’s so complicated about it?” Bud asked. “Who is she?”

Scott almost didn’t want to tell them. “Melany Parsons.”

Bud didn’t react for a moment, then his eyes lit up. “Oh, Nokay’s cousin. I hear she’s a pretty girl.”

Flo looked at Scott with muted surprise, then said gently, “What did she say when you asked her?”

“I didn’t ask her in person. I left a note in her locker.”

“Does anyone else know about this?” she asked.

“No.”

Bud looked at his wife, wondering what her concern was for.

Scott said to Flo, “You heard the rumor, didn’t you?” She nodded.

“What rumor?” Bud asked.

“Well, I don’t believe it,” Scott said, hoping he sounded convincing.

She said as diplomatically as she could, “Rumors have to be based on something.”

“No, they don’t,” Scott countered. “People distort things, and they make them up. I don’t believe any of it’s true.”

“Either way, Scott,” Flo said wisely, “when you live a place as small as this, it doesn’t make any difference if rumors are true or not. It’s too late. There’s no way to undo it now.”

“Undo what?” Bud said, getting a little annoyed at being left out of the conversation.

“Well, I still don’t believe it,” Scott said, trying to sound final.

Flo said quietly, “Is there any way to get your note back?”

“I don’t want to take it back,” he said defensively. “Besides, she’s probably got it by now.”

Flo thought a moment before she spoke. “Scott, out here folks judge each other pretty quick. Having the wrong friends can screw things up for you. You have to think through this carefully before you do anything. You know the expression ‘sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind’?” Scott nodded. “Staying out of something that’s none of your business may seem cruel right now, ‘cause you want to help, ‘cause you like her. But maybe it’s better to leave it alone and let her deal with this herself. If it’s not your fight, think twice about jumping in. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Scott nodded glumly, feeling lost and alone.

Flo smiled gently. “Scott, we’ll always stick by you. Don’t forget that. We may be the only ones in the whole county, but we’ll be there for you.” She put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. “Okay?” Scott tried a brave smile without looking at her, and she patted him on the back. “Good. I’ll clear the table tonight for you.”

“Thanks.” Scott got up to do his homework in his room, and the conversation was left there with no resolution in Scott’s mind.

The next morning, as Scott and Nokay were fixing the pump of a water trough in the west pasture, Scott couldn’t keep his silence and told Nokay what had happened. Nokay said nothing as Scott repeated the story, but only nodded slightly when he was through. “So that’s what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

Nokay sat down next to the empty trough, and Scott joined him. “She’s been kind of depressed the last couple of days, and Dad said yesterday when he picked her up for her doctor’s appointment she was crying. She wouldn’t tell him what it was.”

“But why would me inviting her to the dance make her cry?”

“It’s not something you can understand well. You grew up in a city, and you’re white. You’ve never had to stay in your place and be what other people said you were.”

Scott didn’t understand. “What are you talking about?”

Nokay took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove. “I don’t know the whole story, just what Dad and Grandfather told me. And you have to promise to keep this to yourself.” Scott nodded. Nokay looked out at the prairie and spoke without looking at Scott. “Nobody knows who Melly’s father is. Her mom ran wild. If you ever met Gran, you’d know why. She didn’t tell anyone who the guy was. After Melly was born, she didn’t want her. She used to leave her with Gran for days at a time, just for revenge, I think. You ever heard of residential schools?”

Scott shook his head in abject silence.

“They’re like boarding schools, except they’re for Indian kids who get put there and stay all year ‘round. They keep you away from your family and teach you how to be white. Melly’s mom put her in one down on the reservation when she was five, then took off. Nobody knows where she went. When they closed the school last year, the authorities made Gran take Melly because she was her closest relative. Gran didn’t want her. Dad said she even talked to one of those free lawyers on the reservation to see if she could put Melly in an orphanage, but she had to take her. We didn’t know any of this until they showed up at our place in June. And I don’t know anything about Melly having a bad reputation. I haven’t seen anything like that, but I’m over here six days a week, so it’s possible. If anyone could push her into it, it’d be Gran.”

After a pensive silence, Scott asked, “But why would me inviting her to the dance make her cry?”

“Like I said, you can’t understand it. If everyone thinks she’s a tramp, then that’s what she is. She can’t do normal things, like go to dances and have friends. You asking her to the dance is like rubbing salt in the wound.”

It was true, Scott could not understand, and it kindled a burning frustration inside him. “But what about Carrie Stebbens? She had a baby, but she’s Miss Popularity.”

“Carrie’s a two-faced bitch,” Nokay said, “and she does whatever she damn well pleases. Besides, she’s white. The rules are different for her.”

Scott’s anger was growing. “But isn’t there something Melly can do?”

“No,” Nokay said without emotion. “It’s already done.”

Scott didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what to think. He looked across the brown landscape to the horizon. He could see a curtain of rain coming; it would reach where they were in about an hour. He tried to think about the Melany he knew going through the kind of humiliation she had faced in her life, but he couldn’t. She was so sweet and gentle. It didn’t make any sense.

Scott watched the cleansing rain move slowly across the prairie, and thoughts began to crowd into his mind about what might have happened to him if he had had as many bad breaks in his life as Melany had. As he sat there by that broken water pump, his whole perspective on his old life turned upside down. He had always resented that his mother had given him up, even though he knew she had to. Now he would never feel sorry for himself again; at least he knew his mother loved him. The Lockharts had loved him, too. He had never really understood that until now. He had been so mad at them for not knowing what that “gift from your real father” business meant, and not knowing where his mother was, ... and for not being his parents. But he could see so clearly now that they had loved him as much as if he had been their own child. He remembered when he broke his arm jumping out the swing in the back yard, they didn’t yell at him—they threw a party to celebrate that he had broken the “all-time neighborhood jumping-out-of-the-swing record.” All the unspent grief for them rushed up, taking him by surprise. God, he missed them so much. He was so sorry ...

He was afraid he was going to cry and he didn’t want to in front of Nokay. He stood up abruptly. “You can finish without me. I have to go.”

Nokay could see Scott’s turmoil and asked for no explanation. Scott rode slowly back to the house, alone with his sorrow.

That Sunday night, as Scott helped Flo put away the dishes, she asked him if he knew what he was going to do about Melany and the dance.

“Yeah. I asked her, so if she says yes, I’ll take her.”

Flo decided against diplomacy this time. “You know what’s going to happen if you show up there with her as your date. You’ll be the laughingstock of the school.”

“Could be.”

“And you’re willing to risk that.”

He set down the dish he was putting away and regarded her earnestly. “I don’t care what they think. I’m not going to stay in this place for the rest of my life. I could be gone in a week. But no matter where I go, I’m going to have to live with myself for the rest of my life. And I care what _I_ think.”

She smiled and kissed him on the forehead. “I wish I could be as brave as you are.”

The next morning as Scott rode the bus to school, he wished he could be as brave as Flo thought he was. Peer pressure was a formidable thing, and saying at home that he was going to stick to his word was a lot simpler than actually doing it in the lion’s den. Besides, the more he thought about it, the more he was afraid the rumor might be true ... He tried to squelch that idea from his mind, because that wasn’t the point, and he hated himself for doubting her. But there were just enough quirks to the way she behaved to leave room for doubt ... He didn’t pay much attention in his first two classes as he wrestled with his thoughts.

He bumped into Melany unexpectedly—literally, as they collided going around a corner—as Scott was leaving homeroom. She glanced up at him with embarrassment, not quite making eye contact. “Scott, I ...”

His hesitation vanished as he looked at her. “Did you get my note?” he asked.

She looked down. “Ah, Scott—”

People jostled by, and the inappropriateness of having this conversation out in the hall came to both of them. Scott said, “Let’s talk in science class.”

She nodded noncommittally, then left. Scott suddenly had the sinking feeling that she might cut class rather than talk to him. Sure enough, she was missing from both their other classes together. He waited for her to show up for science class, and he had just about given up hope when she snuck through the door as the bell rang.

Melany didn’t look at Scott during the lecture, she ignored the notes he wrote to her, and she tried to leave without talking to him. He caught up with her in the hall, then had to pull her out of her determined stride and lead her down to the end of the empty hall to the physics lab.

“Why are you running away from me?” he asked.

She slunk up against the lab door, wishing somehow that she could simply vanish without a trace. “I can’t go with you to the dance.”

“Can’t or won’t?” he pushed. She glanced up at him, looking for some reproach but finding none. “Look,” he said, “if you don’t want to go with me, that’s fine. Or if you’re already going with somebody else, I can live with that. But I want to hear you tell me. I don’t want you running away instead of talking to me. ... I thought we were friends.”

She looked up at him for a long moment, wondering what she should do. She glanced at the hall clock. You have open period now, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go outside and talk.”

They went out to the picnic tables, which were deserted on the windy day. She sat on the far edge of the furthest table and put her feet on the bench, and Scott sat on the table at a respectful distance. She needed a moment to work up to speaking. “Scott, you don’t want to ask me to the dance, you don’t want to be seen with me anymore.”

He didn’t want to embarrass her, but he didn’t know how to talk about this without saying something awkward. Letting her take the lead seemed best. “Why not?”

She blew out a frustrated sigh. “You just don’t.” A long, stony silence followed, and Scott began to worry that he would have to get specific. After an agonizing interval, she glanced at him with defiance in her eyes. “There’s a story going around about me. Have you heard it?”

Scott knew lying would be wrong. “Yes.”

“It’s not true. You have to believe me. ... Not all of it.”

Scott shuddered in spite of himself. He pulled his sweater sleeves down to his wrists as the brisk wind suddenly cut through him.

“This happened last year, too, on the reservation. That’s why we moved here.”

Scott became quite cold and fought the trembling which overtook him.

“I’m not what they say I am. I’ve never done any of that.” She took a deep breath and gathered her courage. “There was this boy at my school.”

Scott said abruptly, “You don’t have to tell me any of this if you don’t want to.”

Her eyes flashed with determination. “I want to.” She needed a moment to get back on track. “There was this boy at the school, and we kind of liked each other, and when the school closed, I went to live with Gran and he went back to his family about a mile away.

“He used to visit me once in a while, and one day he was over at the house, and we were making out a little bit, nothing bad, and Gran came home and had a fit. She chased him out of the house with a kitchen knife. She started screaming at me and calling me names. ... The next day she took me down to the reservation clinic and had them tie my tubes.”

Scott flinched, and he realized he hadn’t prepared himself for what he might hear. He said numbly, “I don’t understand how she could do that to you. I mean, you didn’t want it. Why did the doctor do it?”

She didn’t look at him. “He did it because I’m an Indian and he wasn’t.”

The cold bitterness in her voice cut through Scott like a knife. He began to understand Nokay’s statement that the rules were different for Indians. This hurt more than he could stand. He wanted the conversation to be over.

Now that she had said the worst of it, Melly became calm and almost matter-of-fact. “I read once that when they do that operation they go through the navel so there’re no real scars, but for me they just cut and I’ve got scars. I always tried to hide them, like in gym class, but I guess someone saw them. So now everybody thinks I sleep around. But I don’t.”

Scott said as evenly as he could, “Then it doesn’t make any difference what other people think.”

She shot him a look that revealed more pain than she intended. “Yes, it does.”

His heart went out to her. He had been an outcast enough times in his life that he couldn’t let her go through this alone. “Look, I know it’s bad. People can be really rotten. I’ve been there, too, and it’s real easy to give in. But it’s your life, not theirs. You can hide the rest of your life if you want, but you don’t have to. It’s up to you.”

“Scott,” she said with a tired acceptance, “it isn’t like that. I just gotta hide for a while. People won’t care anymore, the stories will stop, and it’ll be okay.”

“No, it won’t be okay,” he insisted. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Why do you have to hide? It’s just a stupid story. If you act like it’s true, then the people who started it will win.”

“Nobody’s gonna win,” she muttered.

“You can if you prove them wrong,” he said with a buoyant confidence. “Shove it right back in their faces. They expect you to run away? Hit them right up front. They’ll only get away with this if you let them.”

She looked at him with eyes old before her time and wondered at the innocent assurance in his face. Could it really be so easy? As she looked into his honest brown eyes, she almost believed it could be. Everything seemed so simple with him. She wanted so much for her life to be simple. Strengthened by his determination and her hope that he was right, she nodded. “Okay.”

Scott asked tentatively, “So you’ll go to the dance with me?”

Almost without realizing it, she said, “Yeah.” She smiled shyly, and he beamed, not thinking about what he might be setting in motion.

******

After Eugenie had her run-in with the Kilpatricks, she called Deep Poke with the new facts she had learned about Scott’s family—his mother was undoubtedly the Jennifer Hayden, née Geffner, who was flagged on the government computers, and his family was from Wisconsin. Deep Poke went to work on that information as Eugenie found the helicopter pilot who had flown Paul Forrester over Mount Hawthorne. He turned out to be little help. He had been badly injured in the crash and had no memory of what happened.

When she finished that interview, she called Deep Poke for an update. He had found the record of Scott’s birth, confirming the date of August 14, 1972 from his driver’s license. He had run some cross checks on family connections, and he warned her to stay away from Jenny’s in-laws: From what he had been able to gather, they were even more tight-knit than Scott’s circle of friends in Seattle, and it seemed that Jenny’s mother-in-law had been in Army Intelligence during World War II and she had been responsible for giving George Fox a difficult time when he tried to “get the goods on them.”

As for Jenny’s family, Deep Poke said, he had been able to find some information, but both of her parents were dead and when he had run the name of her brother, Wayne Geffner, through the computer, a lower-priority flag had come up on him, requesting the person inquiring to contact Ben Wylie at the FSA. Even though that meant Wayne would probably be no good to pursue, Deep Poke commented that at least the FSA had updated the flag.

In a conference call with Deep Poke, Eugenie checked in with the Midnight Press editor and asked how close Peter was to being finished and if it was time for her to wrap things up. He congratulated her on what she had accomplished so far but told her not to quit yet. He said it was obvious now that Scott was the starman’s child, or, if he wasn’t, at least the federal government thought he was. But they needed to make the story absolutely stick and to find out how Paul Forrester fit in. He told her to go to Madison, Wisconsin and check up on their activities there. Deep Poke promised to get a more detailed background on George Fox’s activities in Madison to help her.

As Eugenie drove to the airport, a great weariness came over her. The miles and months were wearing her down. Her killer-reporter instinct to follow through on this incredible story would keep her going, but she was losing her edge. She knew she was making stupid mistakes, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She was exhausted. She wanted to be plain old Jana Parker again. She wanted go back to her regular job in Detroit. She wanted to see her friends. She wanted to sleep in her own bed. However, as close as she was to this story and its many players, it never occurred to her that the people she was so doggedly pursuing might be feeling the same way.

******

Ben Wylie spent most of his time in George Fox’s office going over the files for Project 617W-A. With no support staff and no budget for travel, he felt worse than useless. The “alienbuster” jokes that had been directed at George were now being changed to “spare wheel” jokes for him. He had tried calling George a few times to commiserate and to clarify things he didn’t understand in the files, but there was no answer. He went past George’s apartment, but the apartment manager said he had left town about a month and a half earlier and gave her instructions to keep an eye on the place for him. Well, Ben thought, good for him. Let him go get a rest somewhere. He had certainly earned it.

But the case was weighing heavily on his mind, and he had no one to talk to. Even Edna, George’s secretary, had been reassigned in his absence. She had always been nice to him. She would have understood the trouble he was having.

The trouble was the case itself. As George’s subordinate, he had access to the case information was restricted pretty much to what George wanted him to work on, which usually involved menial work, such as arranging transportation and writing the reports—George never wanted to be bothered with those minor details of the job. And since that was what Ben did best—everyone in their department agreed he wrote the best accounting reports of anyone in the agency—he more often than not ended up stuck with the grunt work.

But now that he was getting into the depth of the files, the case was taking on a strange new dimension he had never seen before. In one encounter after another, people seemed to be helping the alien and the kid. Some admitted it, but many did not. Those who did usually defended him as being a wonderful person. One person—who was it again? Ben searched through the files spread out across the desk. Oh, yes, that rich Mrs. Weyburn. She described Paul as being more human that George was. Ben flinched involuntarily when he remembered the blast that comment had provoked. George didn’t stop fuming and lecturing her (most of the time in absentia) until he had been back in Washington for three days.

This didn’t make any sense. According to George, the alien was the vilest threat the planet had ever faced. But no one else seemed to think that way. Ben thought hard, trying to bring up every time he had seen the alien and the kid himself. The kid was kind of bratty, but then so are most teenagers. The alien seemed quiet enough, almost pleasant in a way.

Ben had always assumed he was wrong about the alien and the kid and that George was right—after all, George was in charge—but then he started getting more information. More precisely, and Ben had never had the courage to let George know this while he was still with the agency, but he had read _Conversations with a Starman_. It was just to get to know the alien better. But he ended up liking the book a lot. The guy made a lot of sense. Assuming of course that it wasn’t all some ruse and he was really what George said he was. But no one else seemed to think so, like all of those Friends of the Starman people. They had started a letter-writing campaign to congressmen, senators, newspaper editors, anyone in a position of authority who could put pressure on the FSA to stop the investigation. The FSA of course would neither confirm nor deny the case’s existence, but that didn’t stop the Friends. Public sentiment, or what public sentiment Ben knew about, was going in favor of the alien and against the FSA. Ben was certainly glad George wasn’t around the office to know about this. He still didn’t get it. Why was George so violently determined to get the alien when so many other people thought he was some kind of good guy?

Ben wished there were someone he could talk to about this, anyone. But the only people who had clearance on the case now were General Gates and his staff, and they were avoiding him like the plague. Once, when Ben had gotten a call for George from some former park ranger in Wisconsin saying a man was asking a lot of questions about the meteor 18 years ago and taking pictures, he had gone to General Gates for permission to check it out. The general had hemmed and hawed about the budget and various considerations and this and that. Ben had listened for a few minutes, then lost his patience. “General Gates, do you want me to catch Paul Forrester or not? I can’t do it sitting behind a desk.” That little rebuke had cost him his travel budget and nearly his job.

Ben sighed. This was getting him nowhere. He stacked the folders and turned to the computer terminal. General Gates’s adjutant had added insult to injury by giving him the assignment of deleting his own forfeited travel budget from the accounting files. He got into the Project 617W-A menu, then tried to bring up the current travel budget file. But it wasn’t on the screen. He stared at the monitor. My God, they hadn’t erased the file, had they? Bureaucrats!

He stormed out of the office and went to Gates’s adjutant, who was underwhelmed to see him. “Can I help you?” Lt. Blake said with studied disdain.

“I suppose you don’t know what happened to the 617W-A travel budget file.” He was alarmed at how much like George he sounded, but he had other problems to worry about first.

She was eyeing him haughtily. “What did you do to it?”

“I didn’t do anything. It’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, gone. It wasn’t on the menu.”

She turned to her terminal and brought up the menu in question. “There it is.”

Ben looked over her shoulder. Indeed, there it was. “So why can’t I get it on my terminal?”

Humoring him seemed to be the easiest thing to do, so she followed him to his office. She sat in the chair at the terminal. On the monitor’s screen was the menu as he had left it. The travel budget file was absent. She updated the menu, and the file appeared. “There it is.”

“What happened?”

“Somebody must have been in it. It doesn’t show on the menu when the file’s being accessed.”

That didn’t make any sense to Ben. “But who’d be in the file? You and I are the only ones who can get into it. And I wasn’t in it, and you weren’t in it.”

She frowned, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of proving her wrong. “Well, then it must be some sort of glitch. Or,” she eyed him coolly, “you made a mistake. After all, there’s a first time for everything.”

Several scathing remarks came to Ben’s mind, but he didn’t use them. He settled for a sarcastic, “Thank you for your help.” She left, and he sat in the chair, grumbling. Now he knew why George used to talk to himself so much.

He looked at the screen. This wasn’t right. There shouldn’t have been anyone in that file. He went to the operating system and checked the file’s date of last usage, and it was four days ago. He brought the menu up again. There was the file. No, he couldn’t have done anything wrong before when he brought it up. All he did was bring up the menu—how can you screw that up?

Ben wasn’t going to let Gates’s adjutant have the last word on this. He went to Internal Affairs, and he was directed to the computer expert who handled security. “Have you been getting reports on weird things happening with the computer?”

The agent looked at him knowingly. “At least once a day. But 99 percent of the time the cause is what we refer to as ‘operational digital misdirection.’“

“What’s that?”

“Somebody hit the wrong key.”

Ben decided not to take the remark personally. “Something strange just happened on my terminal, and I couldn’t have hit the wrong key.” He explained what happened, and the agent listened attentively.

“You’re sure it wasn’t on the screen?” the agent asked.

“I’m positive. And Lt. Blake, General Gates’s adjutant, saw it, too.”

The agent stroked his chin thoughtfully, then checked it out on his terminal. “You’re right, the date is four days ago. That’s odd. I wonder if this has happened to other people, too, and they never mentioned it?” He shook his head at Ben. “This place is filled with amateurs. Okay, thanks, I’ll look into it. It could be a glitch, or it could be something else. I’ll let you know.”

Ben thanked him and left. Well, at least he had accomplished something today.

******

The preparation for the dance turned out to be more harrowing for Scott than he thought it would be. Although he had been quite attracted to Melany all along, he had been able to keep himself focused on the fact that he might have to leave suddenly without ever seeing her again and that helped him keep himself in check. But after their talk that Monday afternoon, Scott had seen a depth in her that was undoing his resolve. Now he could see so many things about her that he had been overlooking before, and it hurt sometimes to see how vulnerable she was. And yet there was a courage in her he had never noticed before, and he realized how wonderful she was all over again. Despite his best efforts, he was falling, and he was falling hard.

Scott thought she was acting different as well during that week before the dance. Somehow he had given her the courage to face this head-on and be who she wanted to be. She was much more attentive in class, she smiled more often, and she displayed a new, quiet confidence that he found intoxicating. Getting through this was going to take every ounce of courage he had.

Bud and Flo were behind Scott a hundred percent, and Bud let him go early from his chores Saturday afternoon to get ready. Flo made sure that his best clothes were clean and pressed and that the bathroom was well-stocked with fresh towels. Looking every bit the western gentleman, from his borrowed bolo tie to his spanking clean pickup truck, Scott left the Sullivans’ with a courageous smile on his face, a corsage in his hands, and trepidation in his heart.

When Scott arrived at the Melany’s house in Bowman, a cold light rain was falling, and he took the umbrella to the door to escort her to the truck. The house was modest but well-kept, and the men of the family were sitting in the living room. As previously arranged, the men had made sure Gran was away from the house, so there was no problem with running into her. Melany wasn’t ready—Scott didn’t realize he was 20 minutes early—so he nervously joined the men to wait. Nokay, his father, and his grandfather were having a wonderful time with this, and it was hard not to tease Scott a little as he didn’t quite calm down. But Nokay’s grandfather put an end to Scott’s anxiety as he said to Scott with a knowing smile, “You’ll be fine. Just be who you are.” Scott appreciated the depth of his statement and smiled slightly.

When Melany finally came out, Scott stood up and tried not to stare. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her dress was a bit threadbare, but it didn’t matter. A diamond wrapped in homespun cotton is still a diamond.

“Hi,” she said shyly.

“Hi,” he said.

Nokay smirked at his cousin. “Hey, Melly, he forgot the corsage.”

Scott shot him a scowl. “I did not.” The men chuckled.

Melany frowned at them. “Have you been giving Scott a hard time?”

“Of course,” Nokay’s grandfather said. “It’s one of the most important of all the white men’s rituals of growing up.” The men of the family chuckled again.

She glowered at them. “You just lay off him.” She went to the front door. “Come on, Scott, let’s get out of here before they say anything else stupid.”

Scott gave her the corsage in the truck. She had requested one to wear in her hair, and Scott had gotten her one with three small pink roses and a spray of baby’s breath. He tried to stay only mildly pleased when she cooed over it with delight. As she pinned it in her hair, Scott fell in love with the way she held the flowers and the way her hair curved down to her shoulders. He gulped. It was going to be a long night.

When Scott and Melany arrived at the dance in the school gym, there were some strange looks when they came in together, but Scott discovered he really didn’t care. Melany was radiant, and to Scott she was far and away the most beautiful girl in the place.

For most of the evening, Scott was on cloud nine. However, part way through the evening an ugly situation developed. Scott had left for the bathroom, and when he returned, he saw Melany across the gym in a dark corner by the back exit, being quietly harassed by Buck and Stan Henshaw. He could see Melany trying to escape, but they had her trapped in the corner. One of the brothers was gesturing encouragingly towards the door, and when Melany shook her head, the two seemed unwilling to take no for an answer. Scott knew there was no way he could take on one of them, let alone two. He would have to be clever and quick. On the wall next to Buck, Scott could see a familiar red box with a lever. He made sure no one could see him, then he took out his sphere and prayed that his up-against-the-wall abilities wouldn’t let him down.

The dancegoers reacted with surprise and dismay when the fire alarm went off, but no one was more surprised than the Henshaws, who turned and saw that the alarm next to them was the one that had been pulled. As everyone filed out of the gym, the brothers were quietly collared by the angry principal, and despite their protests of innocence they were hauled away for a dressing-down.

Scott appeared from the crowd and took the astonished Melany by the arm. “Let’s get some air.”

“Did you see that?” Melany said as the brothers disappeared with the principal. Scott said nothing, but only smiled and led her out into the cool night.

The evening’s rain had stopped, and quiet groups of conversation formed out in the school’s parking lot. Scott and Melany stopped by the Sullivans’ pickup and Scott wiped the front off with a clean rag from the cab so Melany could sit on the front bumper. They chatted for a few moments, then Melany saw something, stopped talking and looked embarrassed. Scott looked towards what she had seen, and saw several girls looking at them and giggling amongst themselves. Scott looked at Melany, then smiled to himself. “Don’t worry about them,” he said. “They’re just jealous ‘cause you’re with me.” She did a double take, then smiled.

The principal called everyone back inside, and the dance picked up where it had left off—except for the presence of the Henshaw brothers.

Scott thought no more of the incident through the rest of the evening, which became a blur of conversation, energetic fast dances, and all-too-wonderful slow dances. Too soon it was time to go, and they reluctantly headed home.

During the drive to Bowman, neither said much. Scott was worried about what to do about a goodbye kiss, and Melany seemed preoccupied, too, although he wasn’t sure why. 

When Scott pulled the truck up in front of the house, there was an awkward moment of silence. Then Melany looked at him with large, lucent eyes. “Thank you, Scott,” she effused. “I had the best time in my life.” In a flash, she kissed him on the cheek and was out of the truck’s cab. She dashed up to the door, and then she was gone.

Scott sat in thought for a moment. He smiled. It was a night he would remember for a long time. He smiled the whole way home.

******

As Paul continued his painstaking search of northern Wisconsin for Jenny, he kept tabs on Scott. He was still checking in on Scott indirectly, and he could feel that Scott was struggling, or perhaps a better word was fighting. He was sad that Scott was having a difficult time, but he knew this was part of what he had to go through to grow into the adult he could be. In some ways it was good that Scott was facing this by himself, so he would know he had had the strength inside him all along. However, the extent of his crisis concerned Paul. There were many of important choices ahead for Scott; for his son’s sake, as well as his own, he hoped Scott would make the right ones.

Paul had found a temporary job, using the name Frank Johnson, washing dishes at the Bayview Diner in Field River, Wisconsin, which was located on Chequamegon Bay north of Ashland. The regular man was out on paternity leave for a week, and Paul arrived at the right moment. The owners let him sleep on a cot in back, and Paul fell into his usual pattern of hanging out for a few days before asking about any female artists in the area.

Paul was cleaning up the back on a quiet morning when he heard a customer come in. Wanda, the cook, frowned at the clock. “I bet you Phil won’t cut off breakfast even though it’s after 10:30.” They listened to the pitch, and sure enough, Phil, the owner on duty, gave the customer the list of specialties of the day, making an extra push for the blueberry pancakes. Wanda shook her head, and Paul smiled. “Sure as death and taxes,” she grumbled and pulled the last of the pancake batter from the refrigerator.

A minute or so later, Phil came into the kitchen, and signaled for Wanda to come out front. “Wanda, you were here then, come on out. There’s a man out here asking about that meteor 20 years ago.” Paul perked up as Wanda shook her head with a sigh and ditched her apron on her way out front with Phil.

Paul moved around to the doorway to the front and listened as a man whose voice he didn’t recognize asked Wanda what she knew about the mysterious meteor. As Wanda replied that she saw it come in over Lake Superior and she had thought it was a burning airplane, Paul shifted around and looked from a hidden vantage point at the three sitting in the booth. Paul could see the man clearly, but he had never seen him before. The man was taking notes as Wanda spoke, asking questions occasionally to clarify points. He didn’t seem like a federal agent, and anyone who worked with Fox would have access to what happened without asking questions here.

Wanda talked to the man for a bit longer, not saying much other than the meteor was spectacular and a lot of people made a big fuss about it when it happened. The man asked Phil a few questions, then he wrote down what Phil said. He asked them if they remembered Mark Shermin, and he showed them a recent photo. Neither knew him.

The man then asked them, “Have you two ever heard of a man by the name of Paul Forrester?” Paul recoiled in his hiding place as Phil and Wanda shook their heads. “I have a photo of him here.” The man reached into his briefcase, and Paul had no time to think. He pointed at the photo as the man drew it from his briefcase. Without looking at it, the man held it up for the two to look at. “Have you ever seen him, especially during all the meteor hullabaloo?” The two looked at the image, which they did not know was in fact not Paul’s likeness now but that of Evan Pierce. They shook their heads. Paul breathed a sigh of relief, then he changed the photo back as the man replaced it in his briefcase.

The three talked a little longer, then the man thanked Phil and Wanda, gave them each his business card with a request to call him if they remembered anything else, and left.

Paul slipped out the back door and went around the side of the building. He had to do something about that photo. He saw the man about to get into his car when a 4x4 pulled up. Paul recognized the driver as a Bayview Diner regular, and as the driver of the 4x4 got out the man got out of his car and struck up a conversation about the meteor. The driver didn’t have much to add to what Phil and Wanda had said, and then the man asked him about Paul Forrester. Paul saw his chance and took out his sphere. As the man reached into his briefcase, Paul connected with his sphere and looked at the two.

As the man held out the photo of Paul for the driver to take, a sudden gust of wind came up from nowhere and snatched the photo away, sending it fluttering up in the air, across the road, and into the churning gray waters of Chequamegon Bay. The man frantically ran after it, but it was gone. Paul pocketed his sphere and went around to the back door.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked innocently as he came inside.

Wanda was setting up for lunch. “Not much. Some reporter wanted to know about a meteor we had some while back. Eighteen years ago, I think he said. Jees, I’m getting old.” She shook her head.

Paul didn’t like the sound of that. “Reporter?”

“Yeah.” She took the business card out of her pocket and looked at it. “Peter Harker. Never heard of him.”

“May I see it?” Paul said, holding his hand out to take the card.

“Keep it. I was just going to throw it away.” She gave him the card and went about her work preparing for lunch.

Paul looked at the card. He didn’t know the name Peter Harker, and it seemed strange that if this man was a reporter there was no publication listed on his card. Instead, the only other thing on the card besides his name was an 800 phone number. After the lunch crowd had come and gone and when Wanda was taking her afternoon break, Paul called the number. He was surprised when the person on the other end answered, “Midnight Press Corporate Offices. May I help you?”

“Wrong number,” he said quickly and hung up.

That night, Paul called Liz Baynes at Louis’s number and told her that a reporter from the Midnight Press was up in the area asking questions about the meteor 18 years ago and also asking about Paul Forrester.

“Oh, God,” she groaned, “this is terrible. Somehow somebody’s onto the truth. The Midnight Press, huh? Well, forget his name. These people almost never write under their own names. ... You know, that whole incident in Flagstaff has been on my mind since we got back. I can’t remember that woman’s name, but I know she’s a reporter with the Detroit Post. A lot of the writers for those tabloid rags are regular reporters who moonlight under pen names. If the Midnight Sleaze has someone on you, I’ll bet she’s working on the story, too. Let me try and track her down, and maybe I can lean on her.” She took a deep breath. “In the meantime, Paul, and this may sound a little crazy, you better get a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?”

“Yeah. These tabloids print whatever they want. If they go public with you being connected with the starman story, you’re sunk. I suggest you get a lawyer—a good one—and start planning a defense. Do you know somebody good?”

Paul remember Stephan’s promise back at the Keitzers’. “Yes.”

“Good. Call him. Now. Jenny can wait. This can’t. And remember—what a client says to a lawyer is strictly confidential. So be honest. In the long run it’ll help a lot. Oh, by the way, I finally got the letter from Mark Shermin’s lawyer. I read it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s okay. What does it say?”

“You’re not going to like it. ... If it comes down to a public disclosure, they want you to take the rap as Paul Forrester.”

“What!?”

“They say the only way Mark Shermin can get out of his contract with his publishers without being sued is if you say you made the whole thing up and convinced him you were from another planet.”

Paul didn’t like that idea at all. It wouldn’t solve anything, and, as Evan’s book would say, he would be hung out to dry. “Liz, would you write them back and tell them to come up with another idea?”

“Okay. And get yourself your own lawyer right now.”

The next morning, Paul left his job at the Bayview Diner and headed for Chicago.

******

The day after the dance, Scott got the afternoon off to go into Macklen and pick up some house supplies for Flo. When he passed by the town’s small coffee shop he saw Carrie Stebbens inside. She signaled for him to come join her, and he was still in a good enough mood from the dance that he didn’t ignore her for once.

When he went inside, he noticed she had her baby in a carrier sitting on the booth’s table. He also noticed she was sitting in a tight corner booth that only had seating for two on the same side, and she coyly patted the spot next to her. “Come on,” she said, “rest a spell.” The glow of the night before still with him, he could see no harm in this. He sat. The seat was small even for two, and he had to press against her to sit all the way on the seat. This didn’t bother him, and he noticed only abstractly that she was enjoying their shoulder-to-shoulder contact.

Carrie cooed at her son. He was a robust, bright-eyed six-month-old who became fascinated with Scott as soon as he sat down. “What’s his name?” Scott asked.

“Claude,” she said. “I named him after my dad. He looked just like him when he was born—bald,” she said and laughed prettily at her own joke. Scott smiled, exchanging friendly glances with the baby. “So,” she said, “what are you up to today?”

“Errands.”

“Sounds exciting. How did you like the dance last night?”

Scott smiled more than he realized. “I liked it.”

Carrie made a note of his unconscious reaction. “These hick dances are okay. For high school stuff, you know. For kids.”

Scott could feel the windup for a serious bout of putting on airs, but he shrugged it off. “Is that why you weren’t there?”

She eyed him playfully. “You mean you actually noticed? I thought you didn’t know I existed.” Scott decided not to touch that one as he and Claude continued to make faces at each other. “No, I was visiting my aunt in Bozeman. I just got back about an hour ago.” Out of the corner of his eye Scott could see a sly edge to her smile, but he didn’t know what it meant.

She watched Claude make eyes at Scott. “I’m impressed,” she said brightly, “Claude really likes you. He doesn’t like everyone, you know. Only special people.”

Scott was beginning to tire of her, but he could hold out for another few minutes and be polite about getting back to his errands.

Carrie’s eyes flashed with a dark mischief. “I heard about you at the dance.”

Scott thought this should be the payoff for Melany’s act of courage, but he had an unsettled feeling in his stomach as he waited for her to finish her thought.

She looked at her child and cooed with a catty purr. “I heard you went with that tramp Melany Parsons.”

If Scott had been standing, his knees would have buckled. How could she of all people pass judgment like that? Then he remembered Nokay’s assessment of her: “a two-faced bitch.” He had known it himself, too. He also knew Carrie was most likely the starting point of the rumor about Melany. He realized now he was silly to think Carrie would back down in the face of a small public display of dignity. He looked sadly at the bubbling Claude, sorry for the life he would have with such a mother.

Carrie interpreted Scott’s look at Claude as a rhetorical insult. “Oh, I know I’m not perfect. I’ve made some mistakes. Trusted the wrong person. But at least my grandmother didn’t have me spayed like an alley cat.”

Scott mulled over several possible retorts, but he knew any of them would be a waste of time. As he sat next to this self-proclaimed pillar of tarnished virtue and marveled that she could be so heartless, an odd sensation began to trickle into Scott’s arm where Carrie’s shoulder was pressed against him. At first it spread into him as a creeping chill, and then before Scott could stop it—if he had known how—he saw the dark, untold truth of how Claude came into the world. He could see a fraternity house, somehow he knew it was in Bozeman, and a drunken party after a football victory, and a giddy but rational Carrie heading upstairs with half of the defense ... Somehow he knew that wasn’t the first time, or the last time, either. Carrie’s smoke screen about being romanced and betrayed by an older man was a lie. The “wrong person” she had trusted had been herself. Scott shuddered and instinctively pulled his shoulder away from her to break the connection and get the images out of his mind.

Carrie looked at him with concern. “Are you okay?”

He needed a moment to come back to where he was. Giving her a reserved, polite glance, he said, “I’m fine. I was just remembering Flo wanted me back by”—he glanced at his watch—”just about now.” He was having trouble looking at her. “Sorry. I’ve got to get back. It was good to see you—I mean, talk. ‘Bye.” He got up, and with a last, cheerless smile to Claude, he nodded to her and headed for the door. She gave him a curious goodbye as he departed, and he nodded to her again with a fumbling civility before he left.

******

Scott had put his vision of Carrie’s wild streak into perspective by the next day. He concluded that part of the reason she was spreading tales about Melany was so she could have someone she could look down on and, compared with her, look all the more saintly. Besides, having good gossip about someone else drew attention away from any possible gossip about her.

Now that he understood Carrie a little better, Scott could be pleasant to her at school without being embarrassed. It didn’t even phase him when he saw she was wearing a Montana State University football jersey that Monday. It was obviously a real one, and she flaunted her trophy in front of her girl friends without explaining how she had come by it. She liked walking on a dangerous tightrope, Scott concluded, and that was none of his business. Carrie noticed the change in him as well. She wasn’t sure why he was actually acknowledging her now, but she liked the turnaround and decided he might not be a lost cause after all.

Things were different with Melany that Monday, too. Scott watched her in their classes together and marveled at how beautiful she was and how she seemed to be blossoming before his eyes moment by moment. She was attentive and interested in class, and she even raised her hand and answered a few questions. To his surprise he was managing to handle his attraction to her, at least at that moment, and yet at the same time he could still appreciate all of her wonderfulness. Life was excellent.

During science class, Scott and Melany talked about getting together after school later that week to map out how they were going to complete their meteor count project. Her house was much closer to school than the Sullivans’ place, and Scott knew Bud would let him borrow the pickup truck with advance warning, so they agreed to meet there Thursday after school. But, Melany warned, they would have to be done by 5:30 so Scott would be gone when her grandmother got home.

As class ended and Scott watched Melany go off to her next class with a wave and a smile, he reveled for a moment in how wonderful everything was. He turned to go the other way down the hall to the library for a free period with Josh Lewis when something caught him by the shoulder and nearly pulled him off his feet. Before he could realize what was happening, Buck and Stan Henshaw pulled him into the boys bathroom, where Billy McIlroy and two of his other minions were waiting. The brothers deposited Scott before Billy without ceremony, and Scott straightened up and tried for as much dignity as possible.

“Scott,” Billy said with a condescending smile, “we have to talk.”

Scott tried to stay cool. “So let’s talk.”

“It’s about Melany Parsons.”

“What about her?”

Billy wasn’t getting the usual obsequiousness from an underling, and it annoyed him. “I thought you said you were going to introduce her to me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, you’re going to say that now, right?”

Scott didn’t know how to answer that, and he stammered a bit.

Billy shook his head. “She’s not worth getting your head kicked in over, okay?”

“What do you mean?”

Billy shot an impatient glance at his followers. “Did you suddenly get stupid, Prentice? I thought you were smart.” He stepped up to Scott, his overwhelming size an ample threat in itself. “I told you I wanted to meet her. You don’t seem to understand that isn’t an optional choice for you. I want her. Hand her over.”

Scott was still managing to play it cool, barely. “She’s not mine to hand over.”

Billy looked around at his friends with a tolerant shrug, then turned to Scott and pulled the front of his collar into a vise grip. “Give her to me. Tomorrow after school.”

“Look, Billy—”

Billy twisted Scott’s collar tighter and Scott held his breath. “Deliver her tomorrow. 3:30. In the parking lot, to my truck.” Billy gave Scott a glare that sent a shiver down his spine. Confident that he had made his point, Billy let go of Scott and left the bathroom, his minions trailing after him. Scott needed a few moments to gather himself, then he turned and looked in the mirror, wondering what he had done and how he was going to get out of it.

After school, Scott wrestled in silence with the monster he had created. He wanted to know what his father would do, but the only people available to ask were Bud and Flo. At first Scott thought he should consult Bud about this “man’s business,” but as they engaged in the usual small talk over dinner Scott realized good-natured Bud would not be much help in such a complicated situation. So, as he and Flo did the dishes, Scott eased into telling her what had happened and what Billy was expecting to happen tomorrow. He waited for some sort of censure from her, but Flo only continued washing the dishes thoughtfully until he finished.

“It’s a mess, all right,” she said. “Does Melany know any of this?”

“No.”

“You better tell her right away.”

“I know, but I feel terrible. I made this so much worse. I should have left this alone like you said. Then Melany could have just hid out until the whole thing was over and it would have been okay.”

Flo handed Scott the roasting pan to dry. “Scott, things like this are never over. I don’t think Melany’s way would have worked, either. Boys like Billy McIlroy don’t give up until they get what they want. She would have faced this sooner or later. At least this way she’ll know she’s got a friend.” She gave him an encouraging smile.

“But what good is that going to do?” Scott countered. “I can’t get her out of this.”

“No, you can’t. And I know you think you got her into it, but you didn’t. You said it happened to her before, right? It’s her life and her problem, and she’s got to deal with it. It’s not your job to save her. Being someone’s friend doesn’t mean you protect them from everything and keep them from living their own lives. It just means you help them the best way you can. It’s like what happened to Celeste and Kerry. A couple of months after they were married, their house burned down. They were okay, but all their stuff was gone. Bud and I felt bad for them, but we couldn’t have prevented the fire so we didn’t worry about that. We worked on what we could do, like going over and helping them salvage what they could, and letting them live here while their new place was being built, and then when they moved into their new place we gave them a smoke detector and a couple fire extinguishers,” she said with a wink. Scott smiled. “You just do your best. Sometimes the most important thing you can do is just letting people know you’re there.”

Scott appreciated what she said, and for the first time he understood his father’s advice after they had learned about Kurt’s death. He smiled at her. “How come you’re so smart?”

She laughed. “All us Harrigan girls are smart. I just happened to get the good looks, too.” They laughed.

Before the start of classes the next day, Scott told Melany everything. She listened in grim silence, then turned to head out the door. Scott stopped her. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t stay here. I have to go home.”

“And then what? You can’t hide in your house for the rest of your life.”

“I’ll go someplace. I don’t care.” She was fighting tears. “Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone, okay? Goodbye.” Scott struggled with what to do as he watched her leave. Despite Flo’s sage advice, he still wanted to solve this for her somehow, and he was angry with himself for not being able to use his capricious alien powers to make everything all right.

Scott looked for Melany in their three classes together, but she was not there. However, he did run into Billy McIlroy in the hall twice, and both times Billy reminded Scott of his after-school obligation. There was no chance to talk—Scott didn’t know what to say to him anyway—so he waited for the confrontation until the appointed hour.

Prepared for anything short of death, Scott walked through the Macklen High School parking lot at 3:30 towards Billy’s beloved and pampered bright red four-wheel-drive pickup truck. It was impossible to miss, as Billy always parked it at the far edge of the lot to avoid door dings and other parking lot mishaps. Hoping for a miracle, Scott trudged to the pickup and noticed that in the back of the truck were the Henshaw brothers and two more of Billy’s minions. Great, Scott thought as he approached the pickup, he was facing not one but five disappointed thugs.

Scott stopped opposite the empty passenger seat that had obviously been reserved for Melany. Billy looked at Scott with concern instead of anger. “Well?”

“She’s not here.”

Billy seemed surprised. “Where is she?”

Scott shrugged. “She’s not in school.”

“Why not?”

It was time to lay in on the line. “... Because she’s not what you think she is,” Scott said simply.

Billy didn’t like the sound of this and got out of the truck. As he walked to Scott he turned to his waiting friends and said, “Stay there. Let me handle this.” Billy took the tense Scott by the shoulder and led him away. “What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s not like that. ... She doesn’t sleep around.”

Billy pondered this with a deliberation that surprised Scott. “I don’t get it. Everyone in school says she does.”

“Everyone’s wrong.” Billy pondered this further, and Scott realized he had never thought there was a rational side to this brute.

Billy frowned thoughtfully. “Carrie told me Melany put out with every guy on the reservation. Are you calling her a liar?”

Scott shuddered. Badmouthing Carrie to Billy would sign his death warrant. He would have to tread carefully here. “You know how rumors get out of hand.”

“Carrie said she knew Melany had done it, not that she had heard she had done it,” Billy said with a precision that revealed his growing annoyance. “You’re saying she lied.”

“... You know Carrie gets all her information from her friends,” Scott tried again. “Maybe one of them ... made a mistake.”

“No, Prentice,” Billy growled as he poked Scott hard on the shoulder, “you’re the one who made a mistake. Don’t jerk me around, man, or you’ll regret it. I can hurt you real bad and no one will ask questions.”

Scott stood his ground as best he could. “I know you can,” he said quietly. “And that’s why I’m not lying to you. Carrie’s wrong.”

Billy set steely eyes on Scott. “Why would Carrie lie about that?” he said, betraying more than a little boyish hurt.

“I don’t know,” Scott said in an even voice. “You’ll have to ask her.”

Billy’s rage ebbed for a moment at the prospect of Carrie deliberately lying, and for a moment Scott almost felt sorry for him. It was painfully obvious that Billy was still very much in love with Carrie and had her on a pedestal. Scott didn’t know what Billy would do if he ever found out the truth about her. But Billy’s anger flowed back as he took a firm hold of the shoulder of Scott’s jacket. “I don’t care. I know where Melany lives. Worth Street in Bowman. She’s got to be there now. I’m going to go over there and take care of this myself.”

Scott blanched. Against these five boys, Melany wouldn’t stand a chance. He looked around for some sort of help and saw a strange savior walking across the parking lot—Carrie with two of her friends. “Carrie!” Scott shouted before he realized what he was doing. Carrie stopped and looked at Scott with surprise. “Come here for a minute, will you? I need your help.” Carrie looked at her friends, and they all shared a look of disbelief before the other two departed and Carrie approached. Scott did not dare look at Billy as she came towards them. “Carrie,” he said, hoping his voice sounded steady, “I need you to straighten something out. Would you please tell Billy you were wrong about Melany?”

Carrie’s disappointment was tangible. “Why, whatever do you mean, Scott?” she said in saccharine tones.

“I mean the stories you’ve been telling about her and all the guys on the reservation.”

Carrie glanced at Billy, then eyed Scott with annoyance. “I thought everybody knew about her.”

Scott was losing patience. “Tell him the truth, Carrie.”

She didn’t like being challenged. “I did. I saw the scars myself.”

“The truth about the reservation stories,” Scott insisted. This wasn’t working, and he glanced at Billy with worry. Billy was trying to figure out what kind of nonsense was going on.

Carrie was noticeably peeved. “Grow up, Scott,” she said in a haughty voice, “she’s a tramp. Get used to it.”

Scott fought the urge to slap her. The words tumbled out before he could stop them: “Tell Billy the truth about her or I’ll tell him about Bozeman.”

She blinked with surprise as he realized with dismay what he had said. She stared at him with amazed wariness. In a small voice, she said, “What about Bozeman?”

He couldn’t back down now. “You know what I’m talking about.”

She wasn’t going to back down, either. “No, I don’t.”

He didn’t want to say it, but once again the words came out unbidden. “Sigma Ome-”

Carrie’s gasp cut him off. She stared at him with eyes as large as saucers. Scott could feel her frantic thoughts pulsing out of her, including her terrified fear that Scott had been at the frat house once and she didn’t remember him. Billy was gazing at her with his little-boy hurt, afraid of some terrible truth but desperate to know it. Carrie looked at Scott and acquiesced. “I lied,” she said, not looking at Billy.

“What?” Billy said, looking about three years old.

“I made it up. She didn’t sleep her way through the reservation. I lied, okay?” She looked off at the distance, angry and embarrassed.

“Why?” Billy said. “Why did you lie?”

She glanced at Scott, who wasn’t going to push her further. She looked away. “I just did. It was something to say. I don’t like her, okay? It was just a story. I didn’t expect anyone to believe it.”

Billy was undone. “I don’t get it, Carrie. Why? Why you?”

Scott watched the scene cheerlessly. He had gotten the result he wanted, but there was no satisfaction in it. He wanted to leave, but when he tried to fade into the background Billy turned to him. “No, don’t go. What’s going on? What is it you know? I don’t get it.”

Scott gestured vaguely without looking at Carrie. “I just know Carrie wasn’t telling the truth about Melany, that’s all.”

“No, that’s not all,” Billy said desperately. “What was that about Bozeman and Sigma something? What does that mean?”

Out of the corner of his eye Scott saw Carrie flinch and look away. Scott said, “Look, it isn’t important. It’s just—”

“No,” Billy said, “it is important. Sigma what? What are you talking about?”

Scott would give anything to be able to take back what he had said, but it was done and there was nothing else he could do except live with it. “If Carrie wants you to know, she’ll tell you.” As Billy turned to face Carrie, Scott saw his chance and slipped away from them. As Billy’s pleas to Carrie to tell him the truth followed Scott, he headed for the school buses and tried to make himself believe he had done the right thing and there had been no other way to save Melany.

That night after dinner, Scott called Melany. The conversation was more appropriate in person, so he asked if he could come over, and when she said her grandmother was out he drove over. They sat at the kitchen table as Nokay’s father and grandfather watched TV nearby. Scott told her quietly what had happened, leaving out the sordid details. When he told her he didn’t think Billy and the others would be bothering her anymore, tears came to her eyes, then she smiled and hugged Scott. “I can’t believe it,” she said over and over. “It’s like a dream. Thank you.” His feet didn’t touch the ground for the rest of the evening.

Scott noticed a difference in Melany the next day at school. Cheerful and full of a quiet energy, she was the picture of freedom. Scott also noticed a change in the way others were looking at her. Word somehow must have gotten out that Melany was no longer on Carrie’s hit list, and the girls who had snubbed her from the beginning were now talking to her, at least tentatively. Carrie was present but a humble shadow of her former self, and she diligently avoided Scott when she could and ignored him when she couldn’t. Scott had no interest in pursuing this with her further and was happy to go along with her invisible act. She had changed from yesterday as well, as some of her haughtiness had withered and she had to force her occasional flashes of laughter. Scott was still sorry about what had happened, but at least the results seemed to be somewhat positive.

******

Now that the crisis seemed to be over, Scott thought he could relax and enjoy being with Melany. However, now that she was not living in the shadow of fear she was, bit by bit, turning into the best of herself. Scott was bewitched. He had been able to contain his infatuation with her while she was quiet and withdrawn, but now that she was opening up, he was overwhelmed by his attraction to her and he was having trouble concentrating. He had never experienced anything quite this powerful before. Added to the stew of emotions was guilt, because even though he knew the operation Melany had been forced to undergo caused her great grief, the knowledge that she was “safe” made her all the more appealing on one level. At times the prospect of being alone with her was almost frightening. He began having dreams about her, romantic and otherwise. How long could he keep this hidden? His good intentions in rescuing Melany had backfired—now he needed someone to rescue him.

There was another development that did not bode well for Scott, although he was not sure how it would develop. Billy McIlroy was missing from school on Wednesday, and when Scott casually asked Stan Henshaw about it during a tutoring session early Thursday afternoon Stan reported that all he knew was that Billy had gone to Bozeman to investigate something and he had come back depressed and angry but he wouldn’t talk about it. With a sinking feeling in his stomach Scott realized Billy had checked out Carrie’s trips to Bozeman. He must have discovered the truth. Scott’s suspicions were confirmed near the end of the school day when he saw Billy in the hallway between classes. He looked betrayed and devastated. For a moment Scott actually felt sorry for him. Billy saw Scott, and the anger in his eyes made Scott shudder. But the anger was diffused and unstable, and Scott knew he wasn’t the focus of Billy’s wrath. But Scott’s intuition warned him that this could change without warning. Scott had been the force behind Billy seeing his idol’s feet of clay; he knew the lovelorn bully might turn on him and kill the messenger rather than live with the message. Scott decided to avoid Billy at all costs.

As arranged, Scott and Melany got together that afternoon to work on their science project at her house. There wasn’t a lot of privacy to work in—Nokay’s father was fixing dinner and his grandfather was watching TV—so Melany suggested they work in her room. Scott stayed relatively calm when she showed him inside, then once he accepted the fact that he was going to survive this, he calmed down and got to work.

Scott had planned out an ingenious system for mapping the upcoming meteor shower. He had drawn a star map of the southeastern sky, where the meteor activity would be greatest, then he had dotted each star with glow-in-the-dark paint. When they got out into the field, he would mark each sighted meteor on the map in its relative position to the stars. In addition, Melany would count each meteor they spotted with a hand counter, and they would combine the two tallies together in their report. Then they would repeat the process on a night before or after the meteor shower to show the difference. He was rather proud of the star map—his first, he thought with a smile.

Melany was duly impressed. “How did you think of all that?”

He shrugged. “Just brilliant, I guess.”

Scott was sitting on the floor leaning against her bed, and she was lying prone on the bed, looking over his shoulder. She leaned in to look at the star map, and her long, loose hair brushed lightly against his collar. “But are you really going to be able to see that in the middle of the night?”

Scott managed to keep her nearness from bothering him. “It should work, although I may need to make the dots bigger.” He looked out the window. The sun was down, and the light was quickly fading. “Here, turn off the light and I’ll show you.” She turned off the light by her bed, and the room was cloaked in twilight. A canopy of glowing dots spread out across his lap. “See? They really do show up.”

She leaned in again to take a better look, and this time the darkness only made her closeness more difficult for him to deal with. “Yeah,” she said skeptically, “but I just turned the light off. It’s still reflecting that. What’s this going to look like after an hour?”

He frowned. She had a good point. “Maybe giving it a shot of light every once in a while would take care of that. Do you have a flashlight?”

“Yeah.” She bounced off the bed and he put the star map face down under her bed to hide it from the light as she opened the bedroom door. She returned with a flashlight and closed the door, and she sat down next to him on the floor as he retrieved the map. The dots were not as bright as they had been before, but they were still visible.

“Let’s wait a few minutes and see,” Scott said. She nodded in the half-light. They sat there in the growing darkness, and Scott became all too aware of her presence again. But he could handle this. He knew it. No problem. “So,” he said, “how do you like English class?”

“Huh? Oh, it’s good. I like all that King Arthur stuff.”

“Yeah.” Scott knew what they were reading in class now must have been what Harry was talking about when he said he would have made a great knight.

“You know who I really like?” she said. “Parzival. He’s really great. I mean, he doesn’t even know what his father was, and yet he’s just like him and he’s the best knight without even really trying.”

Scott listened attentively, embarrassed to admit that he had not gotten that out of the reading. “Yeah, but he screws up. They kick him out.”

“Yeah, but you know why?” She was caught up in her excitement and held his arm enthusiastically. “He screwed up because he did what someone else told him he was supposed to do, instead of just being who he was!”

Scott blinked with surprise. This was hitting close to home. He was going to have to read that story over again.

“It’s really great,” she said. “Once he started doing what _he_ knew he was supposed to do, everything worked out.” She smiled. “Isn’t it great? That’s what life is all about. Once you stop living your life the way other people tell you to and start doing what you know you have to, then things get better.” She became embarrassed at her display of enthusiasm, and she sat back meekly. She looked at him wistfully, her dark eyes sparkling with tenderness, then a slight smile touched her lips. “I bet you’ve never had to worry about that.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The last glow of twilight was tracing the soft curves of her face, and he had never seen anything as beautiful as the way she looked at that moment. “I understand better than you think.” They looked at each other, and the last of Scott’s resolve quietly slipped away.

Suddenly the bedroom door was open and the overhead light was on, and Scott and Melany had to cover their eyes in the unexpected glare.

“What—” Scott heard a woman curse, and he looked up to see an Indian woman in her 50s standing in the doorway with an armload of fresh laundry. She threw the laundry on the floor and started a fiery string of invectives in English and Crow. Scott and Melany stood up hastily as Gran shrieked at them. “You whore! I told you never in the house!”

“Gran,” Melany whimpered, “we were studying!”

“Don’t you talk back to me!” Gran reared back to hit Melany, but Scott grabbed her by the wrist before she could connect. The woman glared at the boy, and Scott’s outrage wavered as to his surprise all of her blind fury flowed out of her wrist into his hand. Hers was a pure, irrational rage, with no key for him to understand its rhyme or reason. Scott was overwhelmed by the onslaught and he deflated into confusion.

Unaffected by her contact with him, Gran jerked her wrist free, then slapped Scott hard across the face. “Never touch me again!” She blew out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Scott held his hand over his smarting cheek. He had never been slapped before, and he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt. Melany approached him apologetically and looked at his face. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “She really packs a punch.”

She gestured sadly. “I know.” She looked at the door. “You better go.”

He picked up his books and star map, and tried for a bit of normalcy. “You want to try tomorrow night if it’s clear?”

“Okay.”

They went to the bedroom door, and he stopped. “Is it going to be okay with us working together?”

She nodded. “She doesn’t care what I do, as long as it isn’t here.”

He put his hand on the doorknob, then thought of something. “Want to have dinner with us tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Sure.”

“Great. See you tomorrow.”

“‘Bye.”

He went out into the living room, glancing around warily for Gran, but she was nowhere in sight. Before he left, he made a point to say goodbye to Nokay’s father and grandfather, who only nodded goodbye with sympathy.

The next evening, Scott picked up Melany at home and they spent a quiet dinner with the Sullivans. Bud and Flo didn’t know Melany personally, but after the flurry of conflicting stories about her during the previous several weeks they weren’t entirely sure what to expect. What they met was a sweet, shy girl who was obviously head over heels over Scott. Also obvious to them was Scott’s attempt to keep things calm and low-key—and that this was an uphill battle. When the two students left to go map meteors, Bud and Flo compared notes and discovered that they both were confused by Scott’s efforts to put a damper on things with Melany and that they hurt to watch him struggle with it.

Scott and Melany set up their viewing station about half a mile south of the house. Scott had hoped to use the Sullivans’ card table and folding chairs, but Bud and Flo’s daughter Nell had borrowed them, and Scott was stuck using the picnic blanket. In the light of a powerful flashlight, Scott and Melany laid out the blanket, then arranged the map, the glow-in-the-dark pens, and notepaper. They settled in facing southeast, then, after giving the star map a blast of light, Scott clicked off the flashlight and they were plunged into the darkness of a clear, chilly October night.

As their eyes adjusted, and the splendor of the big Montana sky revealed itself to them bit by bit. Neither spoke at first as they dutifully searched the sky for streaks of light. But not much was happening.

Melany sighed impatiently. “Is it going to be much better when the meteor shower is going on?”

“Oh, yeah. It’ll be up to maybe one every couple of minutes.”

She paused, then said casually, “I read in one of the astronomy books in the library that the best viewing time for meteors is after midnight.”

Scott knew that, too, but being alone with Melany after midnight seemed too dangerous even to think about. He tried an impromptu shrug, but he was afraid it looked more like a nervous tic. “Well, I think that’s for, like, places like cities, where people turn off lights after midnight.”

“Oh.” She nodded. Scott thought it sounded logical, and she seemed to accept that. A resounding silence came up as they looked at the sky. Scott began to pat his leg nervously, praying for some sort of distraction. Melany looked at him. “Scott?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you get interested in astronomy?”

“Uh, my dad.”

“Oh. What does he do?”

“Well, he’s sort of a mapmaker, and astronomer, and stuff.”

“Oh. Sounds neat. ... You never talk about your family. Why not?”

“Uh, it’s kind of complicated.”

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“That’s okay. They’re just having a hard time right now.”

She looked around at the quiet prairie, then at Scott. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Another silence rushed up to surround them. “So,” she said, “is that what you want to be? An astronomer?”

“I guess. I don’t really know. I haven’t thought about it for a while.” Silence. He cleared his throat. “So, what do you want to be?”

She almost said something, then smiled embarrassedly and shook her head.

“What?” he said.

“It’s silly. You’ll laugh.”

“No, I won’t. What?”

“A doctor.”

He beamed with joy. “Really?”

“Yeah. I wanted to help people, and, you know, do important things.”

“What do you mean, ‘wanted’?”

She scoffed. “That was when I was a kid. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

She eyed him askance. “You need money, and you need good grades. I don’t have either.”

“You’re smart,” he said. “And that’s more important.” She wasn’t convinced. “Hey, if I were given a choice of having a lot of money, having good grades, or being smart, I’d take being smart every time.”

She smiled at him slyly. “You already are smart.”

He shook his head. “Nah. I’m lucky. That’s different.”

She said, “If I had a choice between being smart and lucky, I’d take lucky.” They laughed.

A cold breeze blew through, and Melany shivered. “We forgot a second blanket.”

“Yeah. I can go back and get one.”

“No, that’s okay.” A bit self-consciously, she shifted over and snuggled next to Scott for warmth.

He shuddered. Oh, no. He almost shifted away but caught himself. He looked up at the sky for help, but none came. It wasn’t fair. How strong did the universe think he was, anyway?

Melany looked up at the sky for a while, but not one of the twinkling lights moved. “Scott?”

The sound of her voice startled him. “Huh?”

“How long are we going to be out here?”

“I don’t know.” Leaving right now sounded like a great idea, but he didn’t say it. “I think we should get a good sampling if possible. Maybe like three hours total.”

“Oh.”

More silence. Scott began praying for conversation, something, anything, to distract him from how nice she smelled, and how warm she was against his side, and ...

Melany pointed up with surprise. “What’s that?” Scott followed her line of direction and spotted a small light tumbling slowly across the sky from west to east. “Is that an airplane? It doesn’t have flashing lights.”

He smiled. “No, it’s a satellite.”

“A satellite?” She laughed with delight. “I’ve never seen a satellite before.” She watched enraptured as the light passed overhead. He looked at her. She was so beautiful ... He quickly looked back up at the sky.

A bright streak of light flashed overhead before their eyes, then vanished. After a moment of surprise, they shouted for joy. “Wow!”

“I’ve never seen one that bright before!”

“I practically heard it!”

Scott marked the meteor on his star map, and Melany recorded the time, direction, and approximate brightness on their own arbitrary scale of one to five. They both agreed it was a five.

The meteor broke the mood and they chatted comfortably during the rest of their vigil. Two more small meteors appeared overhead, and they were both duly recorded. When 9 p.m. came around, they both agreed they had had enough and Scott drove Melany home. There was only a slight difficult moment for Scott of wondering what to do when she said goodbye—after all, it wasn’t as if they were on a date—but when he pulled up at her house she settled the matter by saying goodbye and bounding out of the truck before disappearing inside with a last wave.

******

At the Chicago offices of the prestigious international law firm of Micklesen, Smith, Frees, and Kitto, Paul got past the first level of receptionists by mentioning the name of Stephan Hochmüller. Mentioning his name again with the head secretary got him an appointment with a junior member of the firm, Abigail Spiellman.

A woman concerned with appearances, Abigail wasn’t especially impressed with Paul when he came into her office. He was dressed more for a day on location than a legal meeting, and he also didn’t act like someone who would know a person of Stephan Hochmüller’s prestige. She had never actually met Stephan, but she knew of him as a major mover and shaker in West Germany. This man sitting opposite her looked like a namedropper and an impostor.

“Mr. Forrester,” she said in brisk tones, “you do understand that I am very busy, and I squeezed you in between appointments as a favor for Herr Hochmüller. So, if you don’t mind, let’s dispense with the formalities and get right down to business. What can we do for you?”

Paul liked her. He could tell that despite being quick to judge, she was clever and a hard worker. He could tell she was what Scott would call “a control freak,” but there was a spark of courage in her eyes that pleased him. She would make an excellent lawyer for him. “I’d like you to be my lawyer.”

“I see,” she said with a professional politeness. “Why?”

Now that he had to explain himself without a preface, he didn’t quite know where to begin. “It’s a long story.”

“Well,” she said, shifting in her chair, “I am a little short on time, so can you give me the Cliff Notes version?”

He didn’t understand the reference, but he knew what she was saying. “The federal government is looking for me, and there’s a newspaper—one of the tabloids—that may be printing a story about me that I don’t want published.”

“Federal government,” she said with professional curiosity, not yet reaching for a note pad. “What did you do?”

“... I’m an illegal alien.”

She shifted again and tried a diplomatic smile. “Mr. Forrester, Micklesen, Smith handles primarily international and corporate cases. I’m sure you can find a public defender or that type of lawyer who can handle this case just as well for a much more reasonable cost.”

“Stephan said he’d pay,” Paul replied brightly.

Abigail regarded her strange visitor. There was something very odd here. This man was, as she would say in her off-hours lingo, definitely “Fish City.” She took a deep breath. “Mr. Forrester, that’s easy to say when he’s not here.”

“Call him.”

She frowned. He was nothing if not brazen. She glanced at her clock. It was 4 p.m. in Munich. She would much rather call when Paul wasn’t in the room, but she did have a meeting in half an hour and stalling him wouldn’t work. She decided to take the plunge.

She had her secretary get Stephan on the phone, and to her surprise when she mentioned the name Paul Forrester to him the first thing Stephan said was that he was glad Paul had come to see her and he would cover all the bills. Stephan instructed her to give Paul the best service and to treat him “as if he is my brother.” He asked to speak with Paul, and the two chatted briefly, Stephan asking how things were going and Paul explaining about the tabloid. Stephan asked if he had told Abigail about himself yet, and Paul said he hadn’t. Stephan wished him luck and told him that he knew of Abigail by reputation and Paul was in excellent hands: “She is young, but she is courageous and crafty. Once you win her over, she will do the very best.” Stephan concluded the call by asking Abigail for weekly updates of her work for Paul and congratulating her on “being lucky enough to represent my good friend.”

Still a little surprised by the outcome of the call, Abigail tried to regain her composure by getting back into the rhythms of her job. She reached for her intercom switch. “Let me have my secretary come in and take notes.”

“I think we should talk first,” Paul said seriously.

“Okay.” She sat back and crossed her hands professionally. “Then let’s get your background. What country are you from, why did you leave, and how long have you been in the United States?”

“I’m not that kind of illegal alien.” He looked at her bookshelf of personal belongings behind her at a familiar book binding and smiled. He pointed at the book. “I’m that illegal alien.”

She looked at her shelf with a frown, searching among the trinkets and mementos for the point. When her eyes came to rest on her copy of Conversations with a Starman, she practically launched out of her chair. “No!” She glared at him, feeling very much the fool. She knew she shouldn’t have been nice and made the time for some stranger off the street, Stephan Hochmüller or no Stephan Hochmüller. “Look, Mr. Forrester, I don’t know what your game is here, but I think you should leave my office now.”

“What about Stephan?” he said evenly.

She was pacing behind her chair. “I’m sure there’s someone else in this firm much more suitable for you and your case. On your way out, you can ask the receptionist for someone who’s free.”

Paul hadn’t wanted to resort to a demonstration, but there seemed to be no other way. He pulled his sphere from his pocket and connected with it, to Abigail’s amazement. He looked up at the book, and it slipped gently off the shelf and settled onto her desk before her chair. The book opened, and the pages flipped to an appropriate quote. He smiled when he saw she had highlighted it. She would probably think he knew that when he chose that page, but that was all right. Let her be impressed. He put his sphere away as she stepped forward cautiously and looked at the page.

“One of the strangest tendencies I’ve seen in humans is how people can be totally contradictory between what they want and what they do,” the highlighted quote read. “For instance, many people search for the truth, but then they refuse to believe it when it’s right in front of them.”

Abigail looked at Paul, not at all ready to handle this. “... You’re ...” She pointed at the book. He nodded. “Oh, God.” She sat down heavily. After a few moments of disorganized thinking, she pressed her intercom switch. “Helen, cancel my meetings for the rest of the day.”

“But—”, said the startled voice on the other end.

“—And can you get me in to see Mr. Micklesen? Right away?” she added emphatically.

“I’ll try.”

Abigail looked at Paul, then blew out a not-at-all professional sigh. “My horoscope this morning said to expect the unexpected, but I sure wasn’t expecting you!” She looked down at the book, trying to gather herself, then she smiled. “My God. Do you know what this can mean for my career?” She gestured at the book: “I’m defending _the_ alien.”

“But I don’t want anyone to know who I am,” Paul said with concern.

“But ...” She eyed him disapprovingly, the bounty of exploiting his celebrity snatched away as quickly as it had been dropped in her lap.

“You understand,” he said, imitating her worldly condescension.

She frowned. Yes, she did. Well, she could always write a book about it later.

They met with Mr. Micklesen that morning, and Abigail mapped out the story for him as best she could. He tried to win Paul over and take the case himself, but Paul trusted his own judgment and Stephan’s assessment of Abigail and politely turned him down. Mr. Micklesen gave her the go-ahead to take Paul’s case and reassign most of her other work—”After all,” he said magnanimously, “this case deserves your undivided attention!”

Back in her office, Abigail got the complete story from Paul. After an hour, however, she needed time to digest what he had told her, and she sent him away with instructions to return at 9 a.m. sharp.

Paul was back in Abigail’s office by 9 a.m. the next day, and this time he brought Liz Baynes. Liz gave Abigail more valuable information on the case and the people involved.

Abigail pondered the situation after the two had told her everything they could think of. “So,” she concluded pensively, “it’s rather cut and dried. All we have to do is convince everyone, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you’re really Paul Forrester.”

Paul and Liz shared a quiet glance. “That’s all,” Liz replied.

Abigail gazed at Paul, her mental gears whirring at top speed. After a long moment, she stated simply, “Counterattack.”

Paul didn’t know what she meant, but he knew he didn’t like the idea of fighting.

She stood abruptly, Machiavellian plots and counterplots springing to life behind her eyes. Finally, she thought, here was a case where she could demonstrate her full potential. Here was something she could construct completely from the ground up, every last minute detail, with no interference from the big boys. Sitting before her was her way out of the sidelines and into the big time. She would mold this case into the ultimate defense. Visions of Micklesen, Smith, Frees, Kitto and Spiellman began to dance in her head. Both Paul and Liz noticed the odd glaze in her eyes, although they weren’t sure what it meant. “Go,” she said simply. “I’ll handle this. I’ll call you when we’ve got something for you.”

Then she sent the two away, and they wondered what she and the industrious staff of Micklesen, Smith, Frees, and Kitto were going to come up with.

******

Scott thoroughly enjoyed his American Issues class. The teacher was Josh Lewis’s mother, a former big-city lawyer who decided to teach two periods of legal issues at the Macklen high school in an effort to avoid going crazy out in the wilds of Montana. Sharp, occasionally irreverent, and sporting a decidedly offbeat New York sense of humor, every now and again she took great pleasure in shaking up her complacent, countrified students. Typical of her style was a poster she had above the blackboard. It was Pogo saying, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” The satiric comic strip character was unknown to most of the students, and when they would pester her for an explanation of what the phrase meant, she only said, “You’ll know someday. Just remember it.” Scott concluded that part of Josh’s popularity problem stemmed from his mother’s unwillingness to go with the flow and be everyone’s buddy, but he loved the way she challenged her students and, against most of their wishes, forced them to think.

However, that Monday in class, the usually enthusiastic Scott got the tables turned on him in a big way. The class discussion focused on what rights American citizens have—and don’t necessarily have—according to current laws. Mrs. Lewis tried to rouse a discussion with a series of hypothetical questions: “Do you think non-citizens in the United States should have the same rights as citizens? Or should we have separate laws for citizens, resident foreign nationals, and foreign visitors? What defines citizenship and the right to live in a particular country? Is it based on residence—is it based on heritage?”

The class discussion wandered around with vague generalities, although a few interesting points were made. Scott was particularly impressed with several comments Melany offered. In the class she had developed from shrugs and “I don’t know” at the beginning of the year to being a shy but astute participant. Scott smiled to himself as Mrs. Lewis responded favorably to one of Melany’s statements, but then his calm, intellectual demeanor was shattered by the teacher’s next move.

“All right,” Mrs. Lewis said, “let’s look at one case in point.” She held up a copy of _Conversations with a Starman_. Scott shuddered and unconsciously slunk down in his chair. “How many of you have read this book?” A few students raised their hands, and Scott noticed that Melany was one of them. “How many of you are familiar with it?” Well over half the kids raised their hands at that, Scott not being one of them. “Okay. This is allegedly a discussion with a genuine extraterrestrial currently living on our planet.” She smiled. “Regardless of whether you believe that or not, for the sake of our discussion let’s assume that this is real. What kind of legal rights does this alien have?”

No one responded, and Mrs. Lewis tried another approach. “All right. According to the book, this alien has a half-human child. Let’s assume the child was born in the United States. Do you think in the eyes of U.S. law that this child has the full legal rights of a U.S. citizen?”

After another long stretch of silence in the room, Melany said hesitantly, “Well, sure. I mean, any child born in the United States is a citizen. It doesn’t make any difference where his parents come from.”

Mrs. Lewis nodded. “All right. To my knowledge there are no laws on the books making it illegal to be from another planet”—the students laughed at that—”so does the federal government have the legal right to pursue the alien and his child?”

She had finally gotten their interest piqued, and a lively debate ensued about national security, the rights of the individual, and the theory versus the practice of presuming someone innocent until proven guilty. Scott stayed out of it altogether, although he did make a few mental notes of some of the better points. They might come in handy later.

Mrs. Lewis said, “So what legal recourse do the alien and his child have?” She looked around the room, then focused on the skulking Scott. “Scott, what would you do if the federal government were after you?”

Scott sat up, trying not to be obvious. He shrugged. “Run?”

The other students laughed, and Mrs. Lewis smiled as she shook her head. “Would you hire a lawyer?”

“Why?” To his surprise, his words would not be held back, although he tried to sound as disinterested as possible. “If the feds get their hands on them, forget it. They’re gone.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Lewis said, furthering the discussion.

“Well, they’ll disappear. The government won’t admit to anything, and they’ll spend the rest of their lives in a secret laboratory somewhere.”

“Can the government do that?” she replied.

“Of course it can,” Scott said as a bitter laugh escaped. “The government can do whatever it wants.”

“What about the system of checks and balances? Is that a fraud?”

“No, but ...” A weary gloom settled over Scott. “Look at what happened to Japanese Americans during World War II. People were stuck in camps for years when they hadn’t actually done anything. They were American citizens, but they were interned on the _suspicion_ that they _might_ do something.”

“But that was during wartime,” Mrs. Lewis countered.

“Yeah, but if the feds don’t want us to know something, we don’t know it. I mean, look at Watergate. The only reason that got out is because some civilian security guard caught those guys breaking in. And, like, when they were building the atomic bomb. Most of the people in the government didn’t know about it. I mean, Harry Truman was the Vice President and _he_ didn’t even know about it until he became President.” Scott paused seriously, then concluded, “If they don’t want anyone to know they’ve got them, no one will ever know.”

Mrs. Lewis smiled, quite pleased. She looked at the class. “Any comments?”

The invigorated class did have quite a few comments, and the rest of the discussion hinged on secrecy and the public’s right to know. Scott barely listened, lost in thought of what had almost happened to him once and what could easily happen again. When the bell rang, the no-longer complacent students kept the debate going as they gathered their books and headed out the door.

Scott was about to leave when Mrs. Lewis called him back. Fearing he had given too much away, Scott approached her desk reluctantly. She chuckled. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to chew you out. I was impressed with what you said. Although I would like to know how you got to be so cynical at such a young age. I wanted to ask you if you’d like to join the debate team. We could sure use somebody like you.”

Scott shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Whatever. It’s an idea. Think about it.”

Scott headed for the door, grateful that he had lunch next. He needed time to chill out. He stopped abruptly when he stepped into the hall and saw Melany waiting for him. “Wow!” she said. “What a great class. You were amazing! How did you know all that stuff?”

He shook his head. “A class somewhere, I don’t know.”

They started walking down the hall, and she chattered excitedly about the class. Scott didn’t hear what she was saying, but he nodded occasionally. With a last smile, she headed for her next class. For once he was grateful to see her leave.

Scott was turning to go to the cafeteria when someone smacked into him from behind. Startled, he looked up and saw Billy McIlroy, who did not look startled. “Oh,” Billy said as he demonstratively dusted off Scott’s shoulder, “did I bump into you?” He kept brushing Scott’s shoulder, each pass becoming more like a blow.

Scott tried to shift his shoulder away. “It’s okay—”

But Billy kept at it, hitting Scott’s shoulder harder with each gesture. “Hey, I’m sorry, you know? I guess I just wasn’t ... careful.” Billy concluded with a sock to Scott’s shoulder that made him wince. “It’s good to be careful. Ya know?”

Scott got the message. He nodded guardedly. “I know.”

“Good,” Billy said, then went on his way. “I’d hate to bump into you again ...”

Scott stood in the hallway and contemplated his fate when he caught sight of Carrie looking at him. She gave him a look to kill, then shrank back with a cautious look around. She hitched up her collar, and Scott thought he saw a bruise on her neck. She turned and marched away. Scott didn’t know what this meant, but it felt ominous. At the very least, he realized he had once again made the worst possible enemies. He gloomily headed for lunch.

******


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3, Chapter 2 of the Starman Trilogy

Paul didn’t like sitting around in Chicago waiting for Abigail to come up with her defense strategy, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t go back up to northern Wisconsin yet, especially with that reporter possibly still in the area. Liz let him stay in her apartment, which now served as guest quarters until her lease ran out. He didn’t see much of her, however. She was either working, with Louis, or running pre-wedding errands. She did have dinner with Paul his second night in town. Louis had a meeting, so it was just the two of them.

“So,” Liz said as they dined on spaghetti at her old kitchen table, “since it looks like you may still be in town on the 21st, are you coming?”

“To what?”

She laughed. “I’m getting married, remember?”

“Oh!” He looked at the calendar on the kitchen wall. It was the middle of October already. He had lost track of time. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Good. Do you have some nice clothes?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re about my brother’s size. I’ll have him bring something for you to wear.” She took a piece of garlic bread, then remembered something. “Oh, what am I saying? I’ve got clothes here for you. I keep forgetting. When you got Scott out of that boys’ home and you two took off, I knew you wouldn’t be needing Paul’s apartment, so I cleaned it out. His lease was almost up anyway, and his deposit covered the damage from his last party, so it worked out okay. I’ve still got his things. You can go through his stuff and take whatever you want. Most of it’s junk, but I’m sure the clothes can come in handy.”

Paul was in need of some new clothes, and it sounded like a good idea. “If that’s okay with you.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t have offered if it weren’t.”

The conversation turned back to the wedding, and Liz talked about the last-minute arrangements, especially the trouble she was having getting the proper flowers. He ate silently as she spoke, thinking about marriage, and Jenny, and what could happen when he found her again. When she was finished, he asked, “Liz, marriage is important, isn’t it?”

“It can be. Are you thinking about Jenny?”

He nodded, but his thoughts were troubling him. “I don’t know how to be married.”

“You mean getting the license and that?”

“No, being married.” He frowned. “I don’t know how to do it.”

Liz smiled. “Paul, nobody does. It’s just like being a parent. It’s all on-the-job training. Jenny’s been married before. She can help you out.”

“But what if she doesn’t want to marry me?”

She squinted authoritatively. “If she doesn’t, you send her to me. I’ll straighten her out.”

For a moment Paul flinched at the unmistakable threat in her voice, but then he thought this must be some sort of joke. He filed it away.

After dinner, Liz found the boxes of Paul Forrester’s possessions in the back of her spare bedroom closet and Paul went through them. Just as she had said, most of the items were trinkets from his travels that were of no use to him. But he found Paul Forrester’s passport, which still had two years on it. That might come in handy.

The clothes were a treasure trove. While Paul Forrester’s wardrobe ranged from simple to down-right luxurious, all of it had a natty sophistication that caught the eye. Most of it tended towards the practical, such as field jackets, well-made jeans, corduroys and simple cloth shirts and ties, and Paul found a corduroy blazer that he liked. But Paul was especially taken with a cream-colored raw silk suit. He pulled it from the box with appreciation, and Liz smiled. “He looked so good in that. He only wore it twice that I know of. He said he didn’t like it because it made him look like a real person.” Paul wasn’t sure what that meant, but he let it go and gazed at the suit with admiration. “Go ahead,” she said, “try it on.”

He held the jacket up in front of him and looked at her with a playful, wide-eyed smile. “Do you think it’ll fit?”

Forgetting who he was for a moment, she glowered and threw a straight right at his face. He knew to duck this time, however, and after she realized what she had done, she reacted with chagrin, and they both laughed.

Liz searched in the box and found the rest of the outfit, including dress shoes, a white silk shirt and a sky blue silk tie. She left to start the dishes while Paul changed. At one point she heard the sound of his sphere. “What are you doing?” she called to him casually.

“Ironing,” came the reply.

She laughed and wondered if anyone could ever become blasé around him. When he called out to her, “How do I look?”, she returned to the room and stopped with wonder in the doorway. Standing before the room’s full-length mirror was the stylish and elegant image of the man she had once loved. She gazed at Paul for a few moments, so many forgotten memories rushing back to her. She hadn’t mentioned to Paul the ugly fracas that had taken place between her and Paul Forrester the last time he had worn that suit around her. It was when she had realized he wouldn’t change, and that she was simply part of an unending string of “Forrester’s Women.” For just a moment, she was glad Paul Forrester was dead. It was a strange reaction, and it surprised her. She had come a lot further than she thought. The realization sank in a little bit more that, yes, her Paul was gone, and, no, he wasn’t coming back. Here instead was someone else, Paul Forrester’s unearthly identical twin, and yet how different he was. This man before her had the onerous task of living Paul Forrester’s life from now on, but she of all people knew that he would live that life much better than the original owner ever would have. She also knew he would need all the help he could get if he was to pull it off. But that was beside the point. He looked great in that suit. She smiled at Paul. “It’s you.”

He smiled, then turned and regarded his reflection in the mirror. “It’s not very practical for traveling. Is it all right if I leave it here until I need it?”

She bowed graciously. “I would be honored to have it hanging in this closet.”

He looked at her. “Would Louis be honored?”

She hedged. “Louis doesn’t have to know.”

Paul looked at her with concern. “I’m not getting you into trouble, am I?”

“No,” she said firmly, “I’m responsible for all the trouble I’ve ever gotten into. Believe me.” Liz smiled to herself. That admission was a long time in coming, and it felt good.

Paul went through the boxes. He decided to keep most of the clothes, and Liz packed up the rest, the odds and ends that were all that remained of Paul Forrester’s life.

It was late, so she bid Paul goodnight and left, taking with her the box of memories. Before she got in her car and went back to Louis, she stopped by the apartment building’s dumpster in the parking lot. A small smile on her face, she tossed the box into the empty dumpster, and it smacked bottom with a ringing and satisfying thud. She relished the moment, then drove away.

******

On Friday, Abigail called in Paul and Liz for a major powwow. Abigail was full of energy and professional optimism. “I think we have a strategy worked out,” she began. “There are two basic issues here—the federal government pursuing you, and the Midnight Press invading your privacy. The feds will be a tough one. We can go after the constitutionality of them pursuing you in the first place, given that you hadn’t broken any laws when the pursuit began, but that can of worms could take 10 years to resolve and we want to avoid that if at all possible.

“The Midnight Press is another story. According to Liz, there have been no published accounts linking you with either the federal search for extraterrestrial life or the Starman book. It’s true that your name is flagged on the government computer banks, but the warrant is sealed, so no one outside the affected government agencies knows why you’re wanted. So, if the Midnight Press has made the connection between you and the feds, it can only mean one of two things—they either have someone on the inside, or, more likely, they have a hacker.”

“But if they have a hacker who’s gotten into the FSA computers,” Liz asked, “why haven’t they spilled the whole story?”

“I think they would if they had the whole story,” Abigail replied. “So they must not have it. We have in our research department a reformed hacker—and I do emphasize the word reformed—who’s been my right hand man in this and he says that it’s virtually impossible to get into the case files of investigative agencies like the FSA. He doesn’t know of anybody ever getting inside. But there are other less secure files that the real superhackers might be able to get into. We think they got into these other files somehow and picked up circumstantial evidence connecting you with the case. That’s why they’ve got reporters out in the field doing the legwork. They’ve got some of the pieces, but they haven’t put them all together yet.”

“So what do we do?” Liz asked. “There’s no legal recourse to stop them from publishing what they’ve found out.”

Abigail smiled proudly. “No. Confronting them head-on will be shooting ourselves in the foot.” Paul idly looked at his foot, but no one noticed. Abigail continued, “But I think there’s a much more productive avenue for us to take. We can play on their own lack of scruples and make them work for us without them realizing it. Follow: Our ex-hacker put together a list of potential superhackers who could be working for the Midnight Press, but he says it’s more than likely one man. He’s something of a living legend among hackers. Nobody knows his real name, but the code name he uses is ‘Deep Poke.’ So, they have _the_ hacker going through the FSA’s pockets. Let’s give them something so tantalizing that they’ll pick our pockets—and take what we want them to.”

Paul and Liz were a rapt audience.

“The worst position we could get into is public lying,” Abigail explained. “If I stand up in front of a press conference as your lawyer and deny charges from the Midnight Press that you’re not the real Paul Forrester and you’re the starman from the book, that means we’re in bad shape because I’m going to have to prove it and show a counter logical connection between you, the book, and the FSA. In a court of law, I don’t have to prove it, but in the court of public opinion, I do. And even if we come up with something utterly believable, it’ll still be the second story everyone hears, and they’re likely to believe the first. But,” she smiled slyly, “if we let the Midnight Press leak to the public our version of your connection with the book and the FSA, we can deny the whole thing, take an outraged position against the paper, and we get the public to hear exactly what we want them to hear and we don’t have to say it.”

Liz marveled at the Byzantine logic, but Paul wasn’t happy. “We’d be lying,” he said.

“Paul,” Liz explained, “if you don’t want people to know the truth, you’re going to have to lie.”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

Abigail cooed, “Then this is the perfect plan for you. Because _we’re_ not lying. We’ll make a lie available to some people who will steal it, and then when they make it public, we’ll deny the whole thing. We’ll be telling the truth—part of it, anyway. No one will believe us because we won’t offer an alternative story. But we’ll still be telling the truth.”

Liz was impressed. “But can we make them go for it?”

Abigail gestured noncommittally. “This whole scheme’s balanced rather precariously, but I think we can do it. We have to make sure they think we’re keeping the information away from them while making sure they can get it. And we’ve got to come up with a very convincing story and make sure they get it before they come up with their own explanation.”

Abigail sent them on their way, telling them to return Monday morning for the first draft of their “Midnight Press charade.”

******

Dressed in Paul Forrester’s silk suit fresh from the cleaners and a camel hair coat borrowed from Liz’s brother, Paul looked very much the elegant bachelor as he attended Liz and Louis’s wedding the next afternoon. He already had one wedding (or part of one, anyway) under his belt, but this was special. Liz was a good friend, and she and Louis were so happy. The small suburban church was filled with family, friends, and flowers, and a college friend of Liz’s sang two beautiful songs.

Paul’s favorite part was the minister’s comments about marriage. He said marriage was not two people becoming one—”that would be easy!”—but instead it was “two people, with their own ideas, their own attitudes, their own expectations, trying to live with each other without going crazy. Sometimes the two are completely in sync, sometimes they’re worlds apart. And these days it seems to take people a couple of tries before they get it right. 

“Marriage goes out of fashion from time to time, but it always comes back. That’s because a man and a woman living together in marriage is what God intended for us.” He shrugged theatrically. “We don’t have any choice. But we can choose whom we marry. And when two good people like Louis and Elizabeth come together, that’s what marriage is all about. The joining of two lives, and two hearts, and not being the same person, but bringing all the richness of your own life and giving it as a gift to the other—and accepting what the other person offers. That’s what love is, and that’s what marriage is.”

As pleasant as the ceremony itself was for Paul, there were a few strange moments after the ceremony, however. Paul hadn’t known about wedding gifts, and the women in Liz’s family did not respond well to him showing up empty-handed. Then, during the reception dinner in the church’s hall, Paul had to suffer through a brief lecture from Liz’s mother, the gist being that she was glad Liz had seen the light and “dumped” Paul.

The oddest event came as the wedding guests gathered outside the church’s front door for Louis and Liz’s departure for their weekend honeymoon. Paul was following everyone else’s lead and milling around near the front steps. He listened attentively when Liz’s aunt gave him and handful of rice and told him: “Remember, don’t throw the rice at them—throw it up in the air so it comes down on top of them.”

Maybe now Paul could finally get an answer about this rice business. “What’s it for?” he asked seriously.

She frowned at him. “It’s a wedding tradition.”

“But why do we do it?”

She frowned again, and Paul noticed a slight uncertainty flash through her eyes. He thought perhaps she didn’t know for sure. “You know,” she said petulantly, “for good luck, and stuff like that. Just do it.”

The couple didn’t appear for a few minutes, and Paul began looking up at the cloudy twilight sky. It had rained earlier during the ceremony, and he had overheard a comment at the reception that rain during a wedding was a sign of good luck. The clouds were moving fast now, and it didn’t seem as if it would rain again today.

There was a commotion and cheer, and Paul turned to face the church just as a large, light object whacked him in the chest. He caught it with surprise. It was the bouquet of flowers Liz had carried during the ceremony. They were beautiful; she should take better care of these. Suddenly women came around him on all sides, congratulating him. This was very strange. He looked up at Louis and Liz, who were standing at the top of the church steps. They were smiling at him, and Liz gave him a large wink. The couple descended to the waiting limo in a shower of rice, then they were gone. The crowd dispersed quickly, and soon Paul was standing alone in front of the church, still looking at the flowers and wondering what this was supposed to mean. He would have to ask Liz about that later. He saw he was alone, then noticed he was still holding the rice Liz’s aunt had given him. Hhm, for good luck and stuff like that. He tossed the rice above his head, and it bounced down merrily on his head and shoulders. He laughed. He liked that tradition.

******

When Paul and Liz met with Abigail on Monday, Abigail was brimming with confidence. “I think we’ve got it. A friend of mine who’s a novelist worked with me over the weekend, and I think we’ve put together a package the Midnight Press won’t be able to resist.

“We have two very big plusses.” Abigail turned to a notebook on her desk. “Our research department deserves an award for what they’ve uncovered on Paul Forrester, and I think that wherever he is, he wants this to work. He gave us the most valuable gift imaginable. He liked to disappear from time to time, but there’s one blank spot that’s more valuable to us than all the others combined—he disappeared for two weeks in November 1971, during the exact same time you were here before.”

Paul and Liz looked at each other with surprise. “That was before I knew him,” Liz said. “What happened?”

Abigail said, “He’d just come back from Vietnam and left the Army. He apparently was traveling with an Army buddy. We traced him to El Paso, Texas, on November 3, 1971. It was easy to find him—he got into a bar fight and was detained for questioning. Then he was gone for 15 days, and he resurfaced in Chicago, broke, a little roughed up, and with no explanations.”

Liz frowned. “Drugs.”

Abigail nodded. “That’s our guess. A quick crosscheck with Mexican authorities revealed a drug bust on November 12, 1971, in a small village south of Cuidad Juarez, in which seven Mexicans and three Americans were arrested. The three Americans turned out to be recently-discharged soldiers from Vietnam who all got out the same time Paul did, and one was even in the same bar fight that Paul’d been in in El Paso. There were several suspects who escaped during the bust, including an American man who matched Paul Forrester’s description, and several of the men who were captured described the anonymous missing American as having a bullet wound scar on his right bicep.”

Liz shook her head. “He hinted once about getting into something way over his head in Mexico. I thought it was a woman or something like that.” She shook her head sadly. “Oh, Paul, ...”

Paul looked at her, then realized she meant the other one.

“So,” Abigail continued, “he has a nice, big, juicy blank spot in his life at just the right moment. The other big plus,” she said, directing this at Paul, “is when your son decided to be born. As you pointed out, adding in the extra day of the leap year, he was born exactly nine months after you left. Most people think babies take nine months. They don’t. The average human gestation period is 38 weeks, which is nine months minus one week. Scott was born nine days late. It happens all the time, but the averages are against it.”

Abigail smiled at the two. “Around these two facts we can build a wonderful story. Yes, there was an alien. Yes, he kidnapped a woman from Wisconsin for a wild trip to Arizona. Paul Forrester, who is footloose and fancy free and has a knack for being where the action is, hears about this in El Paso and realizes the story of a lifetime is taking place just north of where he is. He picks up with the chase and tags along. The alien leaves, the FSA questions Jenny Hayden, then they let her go. Paul’s waiting for her. ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ he says, ‘what a rough time you’ve had. Let me take care of you.’ He works his many charms on her, trying to get information on what happened. The whole Santa Barbara Twelve incident proved he was more than willing to use people to further his career. Jenny Hayden’s had a rough time, she’s vulnerable. She gives in. There’s no real story that he can use, so he leaves and goes on his merry way. She goes back home and, 38 weeks, give or take a day, after her tryst with Paul Forrester, she has a baby.”

“My God,” Liz said, overwhelmed by the total simplicity of it. “But how are you going to get the Midnight Press interested in this?”

“Simple. We send out on the grapevine that my friend the writer is putting together a no-holds-barred biography of Paul Forrester. She and I already have a rough outline for you to look at. We even have a working title: Out of Focus: The Unauthorized Biography of Paul Forrester.”

Liz laughed with appreciation, but Paul was thoughtful. “Paul Forrester hurt a lot of people,” he said. “You don’t have everything he did in here, do you?”

Abigail’s proud glow faded in the light of Paul’s scruples. “Well, we have everything we dug up on him.” She couldn’t keep a gleeful laugh inside. “We even found a probable illegitimate son.”

Paul frowned. “Eric Kendall.”

Abigail reacted with surprise. “Well, yes.”

“He’s not a piece of fiction you’ve come up with,” Paul stated. “He’s a real person. He and his family would suffer a lot of pain if you let the Midnight Press publish who his real father was.”

“Yes, but,” Abigail scrambled, “it makes everything else we put in so much more authentic.”

Paul shook his head. “No. I won’t let you include things that would hurt other people.”

Liz smiled proudly, and Abigail deflated. “Okay.” She blew out a beleaguered sigh. “But that’s 80 percent of his life!”

Paul shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something. Isn’t that why they pay you the big bucks?”

Abigail scowled, then lectured not-quite-jokingly, “If you don’t stop this, you’re going to give humans a bad name!”

Liz wagged her head philosophically. “That is extremely unlikely.”

Abigail sent them away again, saying she would have a new draft for them to look at in the morning.

******

The rumors were flying through Macklen High School all Monday. Carrie Stebbens was missing from school, which was unlike her. By lunch time the entire faculty and student body had heard the news relayed from the office that Carrie was going to live with relatives outside Garnet County and she was transferring to another school, effective immediately. The rumors ranged from Carrie had run off with the father of her baby to she had been beaten up by a jealous boyfriend. The only hard facts, besides the fact that she wasn’t coming back to Macklen, was that the sheriff’s office was not conducting any investigation connected with her and that no one in her family would talk about it. The whole affair was a vast mystery, and speculation was running rampant in the school’s halls and classrooms.

Scott wondered about this himself until he saw Billy McIlroy in the hallway between classes, and he realized with dread that there was no mystery. Billy, who had once been the puppy tagging along behind Carrie and doing whatever she said, was listening to the gossip around him with an aloof disinterest. Scott didn’t know what Billy had done, but he could tell that Billy had reached the point of no longer being able to tolerate what she was and somehow he had forced her to leave. He recalled the bruise he had seen on Carrie’s neck. Had Billy beaten her ... or worse? Scott felt some responsibility for what had happened, but in the back of his mind he knew that Carrie was flagrant enough that this would have happened sooner of later. Regardless, Scott was afraid about what this might bode for him. At least Billy ignored him as they passed in the hall, and Scott hoped it would be over now and Billy had satisfied his anger. Scott prayed it was over, but in his heart he knew it wasn’t.

******

As promised, Abigail gave Paul and Liz an amended version of Out of Focus the next morning. She said to him sternly, “You realize of course that tens of thousands of dollars of research and private investigation work is going down the drain here.”

“I think it’s better to waste the money than ruin peoples’ lives,” he said without judgment.

Abigail frowned again as Liz smiled. “What do you have?” Liz asked.

Abigail presented the package to them. She was still rankling at deleting all the “good stuff,” so she showed them the first and second versions side by side. Version One included an astonishing depth of names and dates, while Version Two had the exact same paragraphs, only with a number of details crossed out—in pencil. The chapters covered Paul Forrester’s entire life, including his misbehavior in high school, his callous treatment of his family, his wild adventures in Vietnam, his uninhibited lifestyle and dirty dealings in college, then his freewheeling years as a newspaper staff photographer and freelancer.

Liz and Paul were sitting forward, elbow to elbow, reviewing the life of the late Paul Forrester. There were many details that the two didn’t know, and Liz in particular was rather shaken by all of this. Here was the vast body of his iniquities laid out before her, with none of his charm and personal magnetism to act as a counterbalance. She was mortified to think that at one point in her life she could have been deeply in love with such a man. Paul picked up her anguish and smiled at her sympathetically. He patted her on the arm, and she smiled in thanks.

“As you can see,” Abigail said with no lack of disapproval, “we’ve really taken the teeth out of this.”

“I think there are a few more teeth that need to be taken out,” Paul said as he looked at the pages.

Abigail rolled her eyes. “What now?”

Paul pointed at the page. “His affair with Kathy Lawton. She and her husband, Jake, are still married.”

“It was only an affair,” Abigail replied, a little surprised by the callousness in her voice.

“But Jake doesn’t know about it. He was Paul’s best friend.”

“Okay. We’ll deep six that.” Abigail was also worried that in her frustration her usually informal off-hours vocabulary was slipping into her speech. She had to maintain her decorum here. What if one of the staffers heard her talk like this?

“And Anna Gionetti Kimble.”

“Her husband doesn’t know, either?”

“No, he knows.”

“Well, that’s refreshing.”

“But I don’t think anyone else needs to know.”

Abigail gave up. She wailed, “An alien with a conscience! What did I do to deserve this!?”

Liz smiled knowingly. “Something good.”

Abigail eyed Liz, not sure she liked the connotations of that statement. “Okay. You win. We’ll go through this and sanitize it to your heart’s content. But please keep in mind that we have to keep something in here. We can’t have our fictitious chapter stick out by being so thorough when everything else is so sketchy.”

“Abigail,” Liz said, “I’ve got three more days of vacation left. Let me work with you and your writer. I can help you make it look like a work in progress with holes that are for research to be done. Besides, miraculous life-changing event or no,” she pointed at Paul and then the first notebook, “could we pass him off as someone who’d done all _that?_ ”

Abigail eyed Paul, then nodded. “You’re right. Thank you. But can we turn to Chapter 17, please?”

Chapter 17 turned out to be a comprehensive and completely believable account of Paul Forrester’s fictitious connection with the massive “alienhunt” in November 1971. The narrative followed Forrester from his Army discharge, his aimless travels that ended in El Paso to his probable knowledge of the search then in progress near Gallup, New Mexico (public knowledge of the officially-unconfirmed search had been located in newspapers from Gallup, El Paso, and Las Cruces, New Mexico). The tale went all the way through picking up Jenny Hayden after she was released from federal custody and the aftermath of that encounter.

Given that the writer was someone who didn’t have access to classified government information or Forrester’s private thoughts, the text included what appeared to be some educated guesses about his motives, logical inferences about how the events transpired, and solid inductive conclusions about the whole matter. None of it sounded like the fiction it was.

Chapter 17 was breathtaking in its depth and totally believable logic. Without taking authoritative tones, it offered convincing explanations for everything from Paul’s abandonment of Jenny when she couldn’t provide the sensational scoop he was looking for to relaunch his career (Abigail explained that the real Paul had in fact found that two months later with a startling and gritty photo essay of prostitutes on the streets of Washington, D.C.).

Abigail pointed out Chapter 18, which explained Paul’s remarkable change after the helicopter crash. The book charged that Paul’s turnaround was not a result of “getting religion” or becoming responsible now that he had a son in tow. The writer stated that the worst possible thing had befallen the cocksure photographer—he had lost his nerve. The helicopter crash had been so traumatic, the book hypothesized, that the man who had survived a bomb blast in Northern Ireland and had had the aplomb to take photos in the Belfast emergency room as the doctors were sewing his leg back together had completely lost his edge. Deathly afraid that his peers would find out he couldn’t “take it” anymore, Paul now shunned his old haunts, he avoided his old friends, and he changed his work habits in a profound way. Paul Forrester, a man who had admitted proudly that he had never had a “real job” in his life, was now taking odd jobs when the photo assignments were scarce. Accepting the dangerous _Light of the Plains_ assignment had been his attempt at a comeback, the chapter theorized, but it had backfired on him. Rather than helping him get his confidence back, it drove him further away from his former life. Forrester was still quick with a joke and inclined to live the rambling life, but he was no longer the rake and chance-taker he had been throughout his career. He was a shadow of his former self.

As for why the Federal Security Agency was pursuing Paul and Scott, Out of Focus’s author borrowed from the truth and “speculated” that Jenny had been harassed by FSA agents after they had released her and they “had delusions” that her son by Forrester was really half-alien. She gave up the child to keep him safe from the feds and went into hiding. The book continued that Paul learned about Scott’s existence after his life-changing accident on Mount Hawthorne, and with his new and confused perspective on life, he was responsible enough to take his newfound son with him but still irresponsible enough to eschew normalcy and have the boy live his rambling life with him. He knew the FSA was after the boy and knew why, but refused to take it seriously enough to deal with. And so the two lived on the road, one step ahead of the FSA, as Paul tried to come to grips with the loss of his old life.

Abigail looked at them with professional pride as they finished reading. “As you can see,” she said, “everything fits. That last part about Paul losing it is the perfect touch. It’s classic misdirection. We make them look the wrong way for a story the real Paul Forrester wouldn’t want made public.”

Paul nodded as he looked at the words on the page. “Like a shell game.” Abigail was surprised at Paul’s comment. His knowledge of Earth was nothing if not eclectic.

“But you’ve got a problem,” Liz pointed out. “Jenny couldn’t have kids before he visited Earth the first time. Then suddenly she got pregnant. How are you going to explain that if the feds counter with the facts?”

Abigail answered thoughtfully, “In keeping with Paul’s desire to keep almost all of the pertinent facts out of this, we’ve left that out of this draft. But we have an explanation in reserve if we need it. The federal information is sealed tight. But remember, they had local help all along the way. My researchers have found reports in the Nebraska and Colorado police files that confirm what you told me about Jenny being seriously wounded in the shootout with the Nebraska state patrol officers—”

“That’s wrong, by the way,” Paul said.

“What do you mean?” Abigail asked.

“I said they shot her.”

Abigail frowned and looked at her notes, upset at being wrong. “You gave me the impression it was pretty bad.”

“It was.”

“So she was seriously wounded,” Abigail countered, annoyed at this nitpicking.

“No,” he said matter-of-factly. “She was dead.”

The two women shuddered and looked at each other.

Paul continued calmly, “I don’t have those spheres with me this time, so I couldn’t do that now.”

Liz asked quietly, “Does Jenny know what happened?” Paul nodded. Liz and Abigail regarded each other, a little overwhelmed.

Abigail cleared her throat. “Well, Paul,” she said unevenly, “I think maybe we can leave that out. I mean, our writer would only know that if the alien or Jenny told her, so ...” She gestured vaguely.

“I just wanted to clarify that,” he said helpfully.

“Thanks,” Abigail said with a nod, then blew out a sigh. “Anyway ... where was I?”

Paul replied, “She was shot by the—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, gathering herself, “she was shot by the Nebraska officers and then less than 12 hours later she was reported by several witnesses to be in perfect health in Grand Junction, Colorado. Our writer will guess—correctly—that the alien ... healed her gunshot wounds, and also healed her reproductive problems as well.”

“But you’d need a copy of her medical records to know she couldn’t have kids,” Liz countered.

“I know. We can get them.”

“How?” Liz asked. “Those are confidential.”

“By whatever means are necessary,” Abigail answered bluntly.

“You’re not going to put her medical history in this, are you?” Paul said, ready to abandon the entire plan.

“No,” Abigail answered. “Remember, we don’t need the records, only our fictitious author does. We can have her bribe a fictitious medical records clerk at Jenny’s hospital to follow up about the gunshot injuries, and in the course of that she can ‘stumble across’ Jenny’s fertility problems. We don’t even need to put anything in there—we can simply hint at it.”

Liz nodded with growing appreciation. “Of course. You wouldn’t need to produce her records. Your writer can allude to them in this draft in a note to herself, ‘I’m on to something here’ and leave it like that.”

“Exactly,” Abigail said. “We can leave as many loose ends as we want. The Midnight Press hacker will be getting into something my writer isn’t intending for them to see.”

Abigail looked at Paul. “So, what do you think?”

He took a thoughtful breath. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Why not?” she said flatly.

“I don’t like saying these things about Jenny without her knowing about it.”

Abigail was going to hang tough on this one. “I don’t think there’s any way around it.”

Paul looked at Liz. “Was Jenny ever identified in the newspapers?”

“I don’t think so. I never saw her name.”

Paul shook his head. “Telling everyone what happened might be hard on her. She had a rough time.”

Abigail frowned sternly. “First you don’t want to lie, and now you don’t want to tell the truth. We’re running out of choices.”

“Paul,” Liz said, putting a comforting hand on Paul’s hand, “I really believe Jenny would understand if you have no other choice. Besides, we’re not saying she did anything bad. All we’re saying is she was taken advantage of by someone who did it very well.” She was betrayed by a touch of sadness in her voice, and Paul nodded sympathetically.

After a moment to contemplate this, he said, “Okay, but you have to be careful with her medical history. It makes Scott look like who he is. I don’t want people thinking he and his mother are connected with the Starman book.”

Abigail frowned again, and Liz nodded at her knowingly. “He’s got a point.”

“He’s always got a point,” Abigail groused. “Look, we’ve got to be very near the edge if anyone’s going to believe us. We could come up with a wonderful, innocent story that has nothing to do with anything, but no one would buy it. We’ve got to come as close to the truth as we possibly can without actually hitting it. Do you understand?”

Paul frowned. “I think so.”

Abigail clarified, “Do you understand to the point where you’ll go along with it?” Paul thought for a moment, and Abigail said, “You don’t really have much choice at this stage of the game.”

He looked at the notebooks. He nodded. “Okay.”

“Thank you, God,” Abigail said with conviction. “All right. The way things stand now is Liz, my novelist friend Carolyn, and I are going to go over this and make it look authentic. We’ve found a computer for the bait. There’s a computer club at a college here in town that lets people use a mainframe for a minimal per-hour fee. Carolyn will put this on their mainframe, which can be accessed 24 hours a day in person or by modem. She’ll write a query letter to the Midnight Press asking if they’d like to underwrite the cost of publishing her book in exchange for syndication rights. We’ll make sure to include how to get in touch with her through her computer mail service, which will show them where her work is. And, if I read my hacks correctly, they’ll turn her down, saying, ‘Oh, gosh, we’re already doing something on him’ and then steal her book. We’ll also send queries to several other publishers, just to make it look legitimate.”

“What are you going to do when they publish your bait?” Liz asked.

“As Paul’s attorneys, we’ll hold a press conference on behalf of ‘the oppressed Mr. Forrester who’s on assignment and unavailable,’ deny everything, and make a lot of noise about suing for libel, invasion of privacy, and whatever else we can think up.”

“Where will I be?” Paul asked.

Abigail shrugged. “Looking for Jenny.”

Paul smiled. “That part I like.”

******

Eugenie did not find what she was looking for in Madison. She needed something to explain Paul Forrester’s connection with the FSA search for the starman, but a prolonged examination of the newspaper archives and general poking around produced nothing towards that end.

However, she discovered more evidence that Scott was no ordinary kid. The newspaper archives gave her the astonishing story of a wild boat chase on Lake Mendota in which two teenage boys in an old inboard outran “federal investigators” in a high-powered speedboat. Although no names were mentioned, the chase took place on the same date as one of George Fox’s arrivals in Madison. What gave away Scott’s presence in the affair was the brief article’s mentioning that at least three witnesses had seen one of the boys in the boat “[stop] the speedboat dead in the water with a strange blue light.” The icing on the cake was the article’s last sentence, which said the Madison police had no comment and referred all inquiries to the FSA.

Peter Harker joined Eugenie in Madison after he finished his cross-country trek getting the history of the alien pursuit 18 years ago. They shared their information, and although Peter had not been able to link Paul Forrester with any of this, Peter had interviews with several people along the alien’s route who reported seeing a mysterious blue light. Most prominent among these were two people who had witnessed the fiery crash of a Mustang—Deep Poke had confirmed for Peter that Jenny Hayden had owned a Mustang of the same color and model year—with a jackknifed fuel truck near Hastings, Nebraska. Both of the eyewitnesses to the accident had seen two figures “surrounded by a strange blue light” emerge from the inferno.

“Well, well,” she said to Peter significantly, “isn’t that interesting?”

They both regretted not having a recent photo of Scott, but she hoped Deep Poke would somehow be able to use his awe-inspiring computer skills to extract a printout of Scott’s driver’s license photo.

It was time to go back to the Midnight Press offices and write this up. They booked seats on the first flight out the next morning, and spent their final night on the road speculating on how the last pieces fit in.

Tossing possible scenarios at each other, they talked into the wee hours. Ideas ranged from Mark Shermin being the starman to Scott being the alien visitor to George Fox somehow being in cahoots with the entire affair. Each idea in its turn was shot down.

Their main concern was figuring out Paul Forrester’s role in all this. Peter had met several people in northern Wisconsin who had recognized the photo of Forrester—while he still had it—even though no one knew him by that name or remembered exactly when they had seen him.

About 1 a.m., Peter asked Eugenie, “Could Paul Forrester be the starman?”

She scoffed. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“He’s been around too long. He didn’t just appear 18 years ago. Besides, didn’t you say the owner of that cafe on the crater rim said a man and woman went into the crater, the spaceship came and went, and then only the woman came out? The alien obviously left.”

He sighed. “How well do you know Forrester?”

“Not well. He’s not the type to open up and get close to people.”

Peter sat back. “I don’t know. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for him being involved in this. There’s no other logical connection.” He counted the reasons out on his fingers. “Look at the facts: He’s tagged on the computers the same way that the alien kid and his mother are; he’s constantly identified as the kid’s father; and he’s a working journalist who’s sitting on the greatest story since the Big Bang and he’s not doing anything about it.”

Eugenie looked at her partner reluctantly. She knew he was wrong, but she couldn’t come up with an intelligent rebuttal.

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. Could he have been taken over by the alien or something?”

“You mean possessed?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Eugenie thought about that for a moment, then frowned. “You’ve been reading too much of your own copy.”

He laughed tiredly. “Can we turn this into something?”

“You remember what our editor said—he wants _real_ reporting on this one.”

He frowned. “What a drag.” He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing when the cold liquid touched his lips. “He’s pushing us to get this done. _I_ want to get it done. What if we can’t get it? Maybe he’ll settle for ‘heavy speculation.’“

She yawned. She had wanted to resort to that a long time ago. “We could come up with something and pitch it to him. I mean, he can only say no.”

Peter started getting a shot of energy. “Great.” He turned to his laptop and opened a brainstorm file. “Okay, let’s play. You’ve been handling the current end of this more than I have. Are there any aberrations in his life that we can play on?”

She shifted forward. “Put down what you said already about him being the father and such.” He entered it in his new file as she tried to think. The hour was late and she was on the verge of getting slaphappy. She was going to have to concentrate.

“Okay,” Peter said as he finished typing, “‘Not turning the kid in.’ What else?”

“Well, this has nothing to do with anything, but Paul’s always been real publicity-conscious. He knows how to take bad situations and turn himself into the heroic photographer raging against the storm. But after that helicopter crash on Mount Hawthorne, I was really surprised. I was expecting to find a three-page spread with an exclusive blow-by-blow of ‘My Ordeal in the Hell of the Erupting Volcano.’ Mind you, I only looked in the Seattle papers, but I didn’t find anything.”

Peter typed that into his computer. “Did he do anything after he returned from the dead on that Nebraska thing?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t check.”

“We’ll have Deep Poke look around.”

Eugenie continued to think as Peter squinted at the laptop’s screen. “Can we find enough to turn this into a personality change?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.” She remembered something, and looked back at her first notebook. “Deep Poke said his banking habits changed around then.”

“How so?”

“He stopped being a high roller. He couldn’t find an active checking account on him, either.”

As Peter typed, he asked, “Savings?”

She flipped to the next page. “$87.18 in a Chicago credit union. The last transaction was an overdraft withdrawal from savings into his checking account that wiped out the checking and left 80 bucks in savings. That was on September 15, 1986.”

“So it’s just been sitting idle since then,” he said. She nodded. He typed that in. “So what about this daddy business? I thought Forrester was Don Juan Junior.”

“So did I.”

“When did he pick the kid up?”

She looked at her notes. “Seattle, after the helicopter crash.”

Peter leaned back and stretched. “Okay, try this one on for size. What if the kid isn’t his son, but he wants everyone to think he is so they won’t be suspicious about them being together. Could Forrester be a switch hitter and he’s into teenage boys?”

Eugenie tried not to choke. “No. He’s definitely into women—figuratively and literally.”

Peter smiled, then yawned. “We need something really weird to sell this so we can go home.”

She sat blankly for a moment, then it hit her and she laughed. “I got it! The kid was in the car accident. The other people were killed, and he walked away without a scratch. Paul came out of the helicopter crash completely unhurt!”

He laughed as he typed this in. “When were the two accidents?”

Eugenie looked at her notes. “The car accident was August 15th, and the helicopter crash was September 16th.”

“Why was Forrester doing the Mount Hawthorne thing? Was it an assignment?”

Eugenie yawned. “No. He had another assignment lined up but ditched it at the last minute when the volcano went off.”

“Sort of like he was drawn to it,” Peter said with a melodramatic roll in his voice. She was too tired to respond. He squinted at the computer screen. “Why does September 1986 ring a bell?”

It sounded familiar to Eugenie as well, and she searched through her notes. “That’s when George Fox’s accounting file for the alien hunt—Project 617W—was reactivated as 617W-A.” They looked at each other seriously, then Peter began to smile. She said, “... The feds think Paul’s the alien.”

“We got it!” He laughed with delight and started typing away.

She watched him, then frowned. “You don’t think he really is, do you?”

He shot her an acerbic glance as he typed. “You’ve been reading too much of my copy.”

She chuckled, then countered seriously, “But what about all the weird stuff with the kid?”

He didn’t skip a beat as he typed at a furious pace. “Coincidence. Hyperactive imaginations. Police trying to save face.”

“But what about the blue light business?”

He paused thoughtfully, then looked at her. “Look. I know it’s very late, and we’re both tired, and this is a lot of fun to play with. But I want you to look me square in the eye and tell me that you honestly think a creature from a wildly advanced civilization in outer space has been living in the suburbs passing himself off as a teenager.”

There had been times when she was 99 percent certain that her worst fears were true, but in the face of Peter’s searing skepticism her confidence withered. “I have my doubts.”

He began to smile again. “But it makes a great story, doesn’t it?”

“But what about the real reporting?”

Peter scoffed. “I don’t care what our illustrious editor says. We don’t get paid for the truth. We get paid for good stories. And this is _great_. Banner headline: ‘Paul Forrester, Alien At Large.’“

******

Peter and Eugenie returned to the Midnight Press headquarters and shared everything with the editor. They worked on him, pressing him with the line that the “real” story wasn’t panning out and they should go with the speculation. However, the editor stuck to his original plan and refused to settle for anything less than the complete and accurate story. He would not settle for the feds thinking Paul was the alien the story would be done when the reporters could _prove_ he was or was not the alien. He told them to take a break from the road and stay in the offices for a few days so they could enter what they had in the newspaper’s main computer system. He wanted a preliminary write-up from each of them by the weekend. Deep Poke was given the task of searching for strange details in Paul Forrester’s history. Disgruntled but obedient, the two reporters went to work on transferring their findings to the secure computer.

Peter stayed late that night working in a private office. He was copying all of his files from his laptop to the mainframe, and he printed out some of the newer files so he could edit the hard copy in his hotel room that night—his eyes could only take so much of the computer screen in a day. After he transferred the files, he deleted them from his laptop, but, just to be safe, he kept diskette copies of all the files as a backup. He had gone through one too many computer crashes to take anything mechanical for granted anymore. He tossed each diskette in his briefcase as he finished the copying.

He was transferring the last of his notes from his Washington trip when the lateness of the hour finally got to him and he couldn’t stop yawning. Time to turn into a pumpkin. He turned off his terminal and packed up. He debated taking the laptop home, but he had his hard copy to work on, and he was sure no one would steal the computer from the locked office. He gave the room a tired once-over, not noticing that the last of his backup diskettes was still in the disk drive of the newspaper’s computer. He closed the door and locked it.

The cleaning woman watched him leave. He didn’t see her—he was too busy yawning—and she waited until she saw him get into his car and drive away before she used her key to get into his office. Her heart was pounding, but she kept reminding herself of the $5,000 bonus Mr. Vance at the National Weekly News had promised her if she found something on that secret starman story. Everyone in the office knew that was what these two special reporters were working on, even though it was all hush—hush. They were being so careful and she would have to take a big risk, but she needed that money and it was worth the gamble of losing her job.

She looked over his desk, making sure not to disturb anything, when she saw the diskette in the terminal’s disk drive. She had never seen diskettes left in like that, so she knew it was a mistake. Finally! She had taken several word processing courses in hopes of getting a better job, so she felt confident she could see what was on the diskette. But she knew the entire computer network had a strict security system, so even if she turned on the terminal it would be recorded somewhere. She looked at Peter’s laptop computer. She saw it was hooked up to the office dot matrix printer but not the computer network. She carefully took the diskette from the network terminal and slid it into the laptop’s disk drive. She turned on the laptop, and the system booted up directly into Peter’s WordStar main menu. She knew the program fairly well, and within minutes she was scrolling through one of the files. It was something about somebody being suspended for causing a ruckus at a funeral and not obeying orders. Mr. Vance would probably like that a lot. She printed up all the files, being careful not to disturb the alignment of the continuous form paper feeding into the printer. She put the diskette back where she had found it, turned everything off, made sure everything was back in the right position, and then headed for the communications office.

She turned on one of the secondary facsimile machines—she didn’t dare use the main one and run the risk of interrupting an incoming fax—and as it warmed up she searched in her wallet for the phone number to Mr. Vance’s personal fax machine. It was an 800 number, so it wouldn’t show up on the Midnight Press’s phone log. When the machine was ready, she sent the pages through with her special signal—a blank Midnight Press fax cover sheet fed through bottom first. With shaking hands, she turned off the fax machine and jammed the transmission report in her pocket. She made sure the cover sheet wasn’t wrinkled, then replaced it on the shelf and rushed back to the office. She stashed the printed pages in the bottom of the waste bin she rolled with her on her rounds. Then, with a last careful look around, she went back to cleaning the offices.

******

The furor at the Midnight Press that Friday was a terrible sight to behold. The latest edition of the National Weekly News hit the stands with the George Fox story all over the front page. There was even a nice, big picture of George on the cover. Peter himself hadn’t been able to scrounge up such a nice shot. In comparison, the Press’s latest edition, also released that morning, trumpeted a retread story about a miracle banana diet and a photo essay on a beagle that could play the piano and sing in three languages.

Unfortunately for Peter and Eugenie, they were both in the offices to witness the interdepartmental fire fight. When their beleaguered and enraged editor finally called them in for a “consultation,” Peter had long since realized what must have happened. When he was called upon to explain his actions during the previous several days, he quietly left out the part about leaving the diskette in the computer overnight and concluded with, “I don’t know how it could have happened.”

Eugenie herself wasn’t feeling very well as the editor fumed over the leak. She had been working since early yesterday putting into the computer her profile of Scott Hayden. She had been a good CIA mole inside the KGB—except for one little thing. She had been in her office working after dinner last night, and when she was ready to leave, she accidentally jammed up her shredder somehow. There was no one to help her, so she simply ... ripped the last of her notes in fourths and hid them in the bottom of her wastebasket. She was pretty sure that what she had been working on after dinner was just basic biographical background material on Scott Hayden and some of her Seattle hospital interviews, but she couldn’t be sure. She didn’t feel well at all.

When the editor asked her if she had committed any errors, she couldn’t bring herself to try a lie in case her material surfaced next week in the News. She confessed.

The editor said nothing at first. He didn’t even give her a scolding look. He simply walked around and sat tiredly at his desk. “You know what this means.” The two reporters trembled, afraid they did. “We have to assume they’ve got that, too. And you don’t know how much of your Scott Hayden story it is.” Eugenie nodded. The editor sighed. “Well, there’s no way out of this. We’re going to have to go with what we’ve got in this next issue. I hate to do it—we were going to blow the lid off with the complete story. But we can’t run the risk of the News beating us to the punch two weeks in a row. Write up everything you’ve got. Go with the feds thinking the photographer is the alien. Stay the weekend to get it done if you need to. And we’ll go with it.”

Startled that it was so easy, Peter and Eugenie left the editor’s office and went to work finishing their stories. This was a mixed blessing—the story would finally be over now as soon as they could finish it, but they were furious over having been ripped off by that band of cutthroats at the News, the hyenas.

Eugenie sat at her desk and contemplated the computer monitor. She brought up a file Deep Poke had provided for her which included a copy of Scott’s birth records. Listed as Scott’s father was Scott William Hayden, deceased. He sure was deceased, she thought—Deep Poke had turned up his death certificate dated nearly 16 months before Scott was born. At least this information had been in the computer and not in her notes; the News wouldn’t get that without some work on their own.

She was angry at this turn of events, but she shifted her anger with herself into anger at the bandits at the News. It wasn’t fair! Deep Poke would still be looking for oddities in Paul Forrester’s life that they could exploit, but that was almost beside the fact now. She growled. She hoped those News scumbags choked on her notes. She started typing, determined to write rings around whoever else would try to create a story from her months of work.

******

George Fox was not having a good week. In fact, his life had been pretty much a series of difficulties since he had left his exile in Vermont. He had been traveling throughout the West, trying to get statements from people who had witnessed the alien doing things that no human could do. Most of the time he was met with a fierce disinterest. He tried to reassure them that they didn’t have to be afraid of the alien anymore, but he had only gotten a handful of people to give him their accounts. Every bit helped, but it certainly wasn’t the overwhelming evidence he had been hoping for.

He was having breakfast in a coffee shop in Sunset Beach, California, contemplating his next move. He had already been given the runaround by Dr. Ellen Duchow. He didn’t even know why he had tried getting the alien’s medical records from her, after that stunt she had pulled getting him locked in the psycho ward. He had given her the benefit of the doubt and assumed she had done that because she was afraid of what the alien might do to her if she didn’t help him. But when he had seen her yesterday she was as glacial as ever, saying she couldn’t release the records of her patients without their permission. That icy smile she gave him as she said he should “ask Paul’s permission” had almost undone him. But he had held his temper and left with some dignity.

George was at a crossroads now. He had exhausted all of his legal avenues in his efforts to regain his job and get the alien. He either had to go with what little he had, ... or start breaking a few laws. Dr. Duchow was correct. He had no right to see someone else’s medical files. He had had that right once, and copies of all that privileged information was safely tucked away in the FSA files he had built over the years. If only he hadn’t lost control at that funeral! If only he had questioned the Hochmüller girl instead of letting that old German kamikaze trick him! This would have been over by now. Forrester and Hayden would be in custody and he would be basking in the limelight. But it wasn’t over. He was stuck. Did he dare circumvent Dr. Duchow and talk directly with the medical technician who had run the blood tests? He had the money saved up for—he hated even to think the word—bribes, if they were necessary. But could he do it? He had bent a law or two in the past, but could he find it in himself to break the laws that he had spent all of his adult life defending?

He was pensively stirring his coffee as a man and woman walked past his booth. He didn’t notice that they stopped, and he was startled when the woman’s face suddenly appeared before him. “Excuse me, is your name George Fox?”

He glared at her. “Do I know you?”

“You are, aren’t you?” She was smiling in a familiar, somehow mocking way.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

The woman turned to the man. “Hon, it is. It’s the federal agent who got fired for losing the starman.”

“ _What!?_ ” George stood up so abruptly he knocked his coffee cup over.

“Can I have your autograph?” she said, holding out a copy of the National Weekly News to George and searching through her purse for a pen. “The kids’ll love it.”

George stared in horror at his photo on the front page of the National Weekly News. The headline blared: “THE TRUE STORY: THE FED WHO LET THE STARMAN ROAM FREE IS KICKED OUT.” No. No. This couldn’t be real. George couldn’t breathe. Thunder roared through his head. He stared at the couple, not quite seeing them. He had to get out of there. He pushed past them and plunged out into the sunny California morning. He didn’t hear the woman shouting for him to give her newspaper back. He tumbled into his car and drove away, not knowing where he was going.

He finally brought the car to a halt somewhere off the highway overlooking the ocean, he didn’t know where. A panic attack had him by the throat. He couldn’t believe this. It couldn’t be happening. When he could bring himself to look at the newspaper again, he read over the article. With a spasm of rage he ripped the paper in half. No! They were making a mockery of him! A sharp pain jabbed at his heart. His hands were shaking. He had to loosen his tie to breathe. No, God, please, he thought, don’t do this to me!

For a long time George stared down at the ocean waves lapping at the shore, and the gravity of the situation washed over him. The unending, soothing rhythms of the water calmed him somewhat, and the vastness of the Pacific put the crisis in perspective. He was alone, totally alone. Discredited, humiliated, alone. General Gates would cut him off without a thought. He could never go back now. Not unless he had Forrester on the end of a leash.

He started the car and headed back to the highway with determination. His ethical crisis during breakfast was no longer an issue. He would do what he had to do.

******

The copy of the National Weekly News could not have arrived on General Gates’s desk at a worse time. A major new publicity campaign organized by Friends of the Starman had been picked up newspapers across the country, and calls for an investigation of the FSA were now coming from the private sector as well as from inside the government. The Appropriations Committee had scheduled private meetings with the various FSA departmental heads to discuss the budget cuts being demanded by members of Congress. Reduced funding was no longer a matter of “if”; it was now “when” and “how much.” General Gates’s turn was that morning at 10, and the paper showed up at 9. Gates flew into a rage and called Ben Wylie in for an explanation. Ben of course had none, and Gates sent him off to Internal Affairs to find out how such a leak could have occurred.

While Ben was humbly standing by in Internal Affairs, Gates was being blasted by the Appropria-tions Committee. The outraged members had their own copy of the National Weekly News, and they were demanding answers. Gates tried to save face by passing the buck and blaming Wylie, but it didn’t work. It had been bad enough before, the committee chairman said, when the FSA’s problems were the butt of jokes within the government; now the whole country was laughing at them. Gates tried a new tactic by denigrating the tabloid, but that didn’t work either. He quickly accepted the fact that the committee members had already made up their minds and this was a formality. When they gave him their decision, he knew it was final.

Ben was still standing around uselessly in Internal Affairs when he was called back into Gates’s office. He wasn’t surprised when Gates told him the news. He was just grateful that George wasn’t here to see this. It might have been too much for him. After Gates had vented his spleen, Ben went back to Internal Affairs. They were onto something with the computer, and he wanted to help if he could. At least it would be something to do.

******

Liz showed Paul and Abigail the issue of the National Weekly News that she had spotted on her way to their meeting. Abigail was duly impressed, but confused. “What happened to the Midnight Press?”

“No honor among thieves, I guess,” Liz said.

Abigail let out a thoughtful sigh. “Well, well. We have a full-blown mess on our hands. The Midnight Press I’m sure won’t sit still for this. Paul, you better like what we’ve got here or else we can just forget the whole thing.”

“I think we should tell Scott about this,” Paul said. “Things are happening very quickly, and he doesn’t know about it. He needs to know.”

Abigail shook her head. “I don’t think he’s in any danger. You said he’s in Montana someplace, using an assumed name. Out in the middle of nowhere is probably the best place for him right now. And getting in touch with him might alarm him, and we want everyone to be as cool as possible.”

That didn’t seem right to Paul, but her confidence overruled his concerns. He looked down at the article about George Fox, frowning. “They’re making fun of him. They’re treating him as if he’s crazy. Look, it says they tried to reach him but he had left town and no one’s seen him for more than a month.”

“Paul,” Liz said, “think of it as just desserts. Because of him, you’ve been on the run for three years. Now it’s his turn.”

Paul felt sad about this. He didn’t want anyone to be hurt, even George Fox. All he wanted was to find Jenny, get Scott, and live in peace. This was becoming so complicated. Humans had a talent for complications. He looked at Liz and Abigail. They were good people, and they wanted to do their best for him. They understood complications better than he did. He would have to trust them on this one.

They went over the third version of Out of Focus and agreed on a compromise. Left in were all the bad stories that were either public knowledge or wouldn’t hurt people still alive; left out were details of other stories that would do more harm than good. Paul didn’t put up a fight, which pleased and surprised Abigail. She showed Liz and Paul the straightforward, somewhat naïve-sounding, query letter that her novelist would send to the Midnight Press. It would be dated two days ago, just to avoid suspicion, and mailed that afternoon.

Abigail was satisfied, and so was Liz. Abigail sent them on their way with a hearty “keep your fingers crossed” and instructions for Paul to call in every day to stay in touch for news updates. Liz was meeting Louis for lunch, so after wishing Paul luck and telling him to say hello to Jenny for her, she left. Paul looked at his watch. He could be in northern Wisconsin by evening. Relatively confident that he had done the right thing, he left.

******

Scott was having a good day. First of all, it was Friday. That was always cause for celebration. Then there was the reminder that next weekend he and Nokay were going camping up in the park, a horse pack trip this time.

But the best part was getting back his meteor mapping science project which he and Melany had finished the week before. Theirs was the first semester project completed in the class—early by nearly a month—and it came back with a nice big A. The good grade also seemed like a reward for surviving another night out on the dark prairie alone with Melany. Mother Nature had cooperated, giving them clear skies and an abundance of meteors—therefore plenty of mapping to do and plenty of distractions.

Scott couldn’t remember seeing Melany so happy when they got their project back. It was her very first then, looking at her under any circumstances made him feel wonderful, and the struggle continued. At least now he was getting used to it. Sort of.

Scott was still thinking about how happy Melany had been as he headed for the school bus staging area after school. But his heart sank when he came upon a scene behind the school building. Josh Lewis was being taunted by Buck Henshaw, Billy McIlroy, and a couple other toughs. Josh was being pushed around a bit, and the contents of his school bag had been tossed on the ground nearby. The focus of attention was on a computer floppy disk that Billy McIlroy was waving around carelessly, making sure to keep it out of reach from Josh’s desperate lunges to get it back. Scott groaned when he realized it was the disk containing Josh’s beloved story.

Scott was searching for a way to “sphere” the disk away from the bullies when they spotted him. “Well, well,” Billy said, “and here he is, everyone’s favorite pal. How ya doing, Prentice?”

It was too late for something clever, so maybe courage would work. Scott stepped toward the scene defiantly. “Leave him alone, Billy.”

“Ooooh,” Billy said with a mocking shiver, “Mr. Tough Guy. What are you going to do about it?”

Scott stopped in front of Billy within reach of the floppy disk, but he didn’t grab for it. “Just give him his disk back.”

Billy smiled. “Make me.”

The cowering Josh had gathered up his school bag contents and was staying close to the ground for self-protection. “Be careful, Scott,” he said shakily.

“Yeah, Scott,” Buck Henshaw mimicked ominously, “be careful.”

“You want me to give him this back?” Billy said, holding up the disk.

“Yes.” Scott was holding his ground, and Billy didn’t like that.

Billy frowned. “What would you do if I didn’t?”

“Just give it back. You don’t care about Josh. You’re picking on him because he’s my friend. If you’ve got a problem with me, deal with me. Leave him out of it.”

Billy glowered at him. “You’re right. This doesn’t matter.” He dropped the floppy disk on the ground and crushed it under his heel. Josh shrieked in horror. Before Scott could react, Billy’s fist flashed and a vicious blow caught Scott square on the chin. Scott’s knees buckled and he dropped to the ground. Billy was about to kick him when he saw a bus driver watching the scene. Billy stood over the disoriented Scott and pronounced, “This will be continued later, Prentice.” He and his friends left.

Scott was trying to make the ground stop spinning as Josh tearfully picked up his mangled floppy disk. He crawled over to Scott as several bystanders approached. “Scott,” Josh asked, “are you okay?”

Scott wasn’t sure how to answer that question. He recognized all the words, but somehow their combination didn’t make sense.

A teacher knelt by Scott. “Are you all right?” She tried to look him in the eye, but he kept looking around. A small crowd was gathering, and Scott was looking in foggy bewilderment at all the feet that had accumulated around him. Where had all these feet come from?

The teacher sent a student for the school nurse, and as they waited the teacher asked Josh what happened. Scott didn’t react as Josh told her about the “fight,” but when he explained about the computer disk, Scott’s eyes flashed with fuzzy recognition. Still not quite able to focus his eyes, Scott held out his hand to where he thought Josh was and said firmly, “Josh, give me the disk.”

Josh hesitated. The disk was bent and useless, everything lost. Scott wasn’t in much better shape.

Scott snapped, “It’s your story, isn’t it?”

“... Yes.”

“Give me the disk.”

Josh gingerly placed it in Scott’s wavering hand. Scott held the disk firmly with both hands, concentrating on it. He could feel the disk’s ruptured sectors screaming in pain. Well, something was screaming. Maybe it was the ruptured sectors. He focused his attention, if not his eyes, on the disk. Everything went back into place. The outside was still warped, but the diskette was usable again. “There.” He handed the diskette to Josh.

The baffled Josh nodded as he glanced around at the others. “Thanks.”

Good, Scott thought. Now he could rest. For some reason he didn’t feel very well.

The school nurse looked Scott over, then called Flo. Flo picked Scott up and took him to the town doctor. After a formal examination, the doctor told Flo that Scott, in his professional opinion, “had gotten his bell rung.” Scott’s chin was badly bruised, his lower lip was split, and a front tooth was loose. All would mend with the proper care, the doctor promised. He taped Scott’s lip back together (“it won’t be much of a scar,” he said) and left the rest for Scott’s natural healing abilities to work on. He gave Flo instructions on watching Scott during the evening to make sure he didn’t have a concussion, and what to do if in the unlikely event he did. Scott was half-there during the examination, but his only comment to the doctor was, “Now I think I know how Angie felt.”

Flo followed the doctor’s orders and observed Scott carefully during the evening. He was fully back among the conscious by the time they got home, and he was more than cogent enough to complain about eating dinner through a straw. He told Bud and Flo what happened as best he could with his basketball-sized lip (at least it felt that big), and while they were proud of him for his spirit they were also dismayed at his choice of enemies. “I’ve had worse,” was all Scott said in his own defense.

Flo took a call for Scott after dinner. “That was a boy named Josh Lewis,” she said as she joined the men in front of the TV. “He asked me to tell you that the computer disk worked fine, and he got his story out okay. He said it’s a miracle.” Scott almost smiled, but the pain was too much for him. He’d smile about it later.

Scott had no symptoms of a concussion, so he could retire for the evening with no more to-do. Bud told him that he wouldn’t let Scott help out with chores over the weekend. Scott grumbled about being babied, but Bud and Flo insisted. To underscore their point, they sent him to bed early.

As Scott lay in bed, his jaw throbbing and his head pounding, he contemplated his situation. This was the third time he had been significantly punched in the face in two years. Was being maimed going to become a regular feature of his life? He didn’t like that idea. He groaned when he remembered that he was going to have to shave in the morning, too. Great. How was he supposed to negotiate his way around this mess with a razor? Flo was worse than a drill sergeant when it came to shaving and insisted he shave every morning, need or no. Well, maybe she would let him get away with it under the circumstances. His last thought before he drifted to sleep was wondering if patchy beard stubble would make his mangled face look better or worse.

Scott had a dream that night that he didn’t remember when he woke up. In the dream, Scott took his sphere down to the bathroom and, after examining his face in the mirror, healed the injuries. The split lip was reconnected, the burst blood vessels were sealed, and all of the stagnant blood was drained from the tissues. He even secured the tooth. After admiring his handiwork, he nonchalantly dropped the tape from his lip in the wastebasket and toddled back to bed and went to sleep.

When Scott woke up to the familiar smell of coffee, he went down the hall sleepily to the bathroom. He was awfully tired. It must have been the moon shining in his face again. He thought no more of it until he went to wash his face and he discovered that his face was healed. No swelling, no bruise, no split lip, no nothing. He pushed the loose tooth with his tongue. It wasn’t loose. It didn’t hurt. He stared at his reflection, then he remembered the dream. What had he ...? Could he have ...? He looked in the wastebasket and saw the tape from his lip, just as he had left it in the dream. He rubbed his chin hard. There was nothing wrong with it. Oh, no. How was he going to explain this?

He opened the bathroom closet to see if Flo had some eyeshadow close to the same color purple his chin had been the night before. There wasn’t. Besides, he couldn’t fool anyone with makeup. He fished the tape from the wastebasket and tried to put it back on his lip, but it had lost most of its adhesive and would not stay on. He looked through the bandages to see if there was something that could cover most of his chin. There wasn’t. Well, he tried to reassure himself, he would come up with some sort of story.

It wasn’t until he was halfway through shaving that it hit him that he had healed himself. He’d done it. But how? He recalled the dream, and saw his thoughts had been working on the molecular level. He stared at his reflection. ... Was it finally happening? _Really_ happening? He shouted for joy.

At breakfast, Flo and Bud were surprised to see Scott’s face, but they seemed to accept, albeit questioningly, his casual explanation that he was a fast healer. But they insisted that he stay home and rest for the day, no matter how fast a healer he thought he was.

After breakfast, Flo sent Scott back to bed. He was too excited to sleep, but he obediently got back under the covers. Flo was babysitting little Peggy for the morning, and he listened to them playing in the living room.

His mind raced. He’d done it. He’d really done it. He had healed himself, plus he had fixed the computer disk—in front of witnesses and not even using his sphere! This didn’t seem like one of his sporadic successes, the kind that got him out of a pinch but wouldn’t work in everyday life. Still the fear was there that this was the same old story. Well, there would be only one way to tell.

He got out of bed and put on his bathrobe, placing his sphere in the pocket for security. He went down the hall to the living room, where Flo was sitting on the floor with Peggy. “Oh, Scott, good. Could you watch Peggy for a few minutes? I forgot I need to make some business calls for Bud.”

He tried not to act pleased. “Sure.”

Flo went down the hall to the house office, and Scott waited until she closed the door. He looked at Peggy, who was playing with her building blocks. Perfect, Scott thought with a smile. He knelt across from the two-year-old. “Peggy, can you roll me a block?”

Pleased to have an eager new playmate, Peggy pushed the nearest block towards Scott. It stopped near his foot. A big blue S looked up at him. He smiled. He pointed at it, and the block was sent tumbling back to Peggy. The toddler squealed with delight. She rolled the block back to him, and once again he pushed it back without touching it. A wave of triumph swept over him. He almost choked up. But Peggy didn’t care. All she knew was he could do this really great trick and she wanted to see it again.

Scott and Peggy occupied themselves with their simple game until Flo came back out 15 minutes later. Scott stood up when she came into the living room, and she was rather taken aback by the sight of him. He was beaming. “Scott,” she said, putting a maternal hand on his shoulder, “I never knew you liked babysitting so much. Maybe you should do it more often.”

He couldn’t stop smiling. “It’s amazing what can happen doing the simplest things.”

She frowned skeptically. “I think you’ve got brain damage. Go back to bed.” He laughed and returned to his room.

Scott spent the remainder of the day lounging in bed. Sometimes he would watch the October clouds roll over the brown prairie, sometimes he would nap. Having a day off was a pleasant change of pace. It also gave him a chance to survey his situation. So, this was it. Well, it wasn’t all of it. He had a tremendous amount to learn. And he had to practice. But at least he wasn’t afraid anymore, afraid that he couldn’t do it—and afraid that he _could_ , and what kind of freak that would make him.

Now that the crisis had finally passed, Scott could appreciate the simplicity—and the magnitude—of his struggle. He had always thought the problem was some defect in his system, or some barrier in time he would have to go through. It was strange to realize he had been the problem all along. His thoughts, his fears, his doubts ... He understood Mrs. Lewis’s Pogo poster now: “We have met the enemy and he is us.” No wonder he had had such a hard time—how could he control his thoughts? No, control wasn’t the right word—free his thoughts, that was it. It had been a matter of him getting to know himself, and being who he was. He had thought that was what he had been doing all along, but now he knew better. He looked back on the last three years of his life and saw a pattern of pretending he could do this, wrestling with it, playing with it. Most of the time he wasn’t really trying, though. He was just futzing around—or running away from it. It was so obvious now. He shook his head with dismay—why did his father put up with him?

At one point in the afternoon Scott heard Flo playing with Peggy out in the living room, and as he absorbed the depth of his potential a strange feeling came over him. It was as if a window to a new level of perception had opened in him, and he could now sense the world differently. Just as he had “seen” the river of fear out on the prairie, now there seemed to be something emanating from the living room. He connected with his sphere. He blinked with amazement as he could see a pink glow as he looked at the grandmother and toddler in his mind’s eye. He could see the love between them as a physical shape, with color, vibration, and sound. Scott almost laughed out loud. Flo began to sing a Mother Goose rhyme to Peggy, and with the sphere Scott could feel the musical notes flowing through him as if they were beams of light coursing through his veins. Wow! So this was how his father experienced the world! Scott realized how disorienting it must have been for him when he first arrived on the planet, seeing what other people felt and feeling what others heard. He lingered over the realization and smiled with a new understanding.

Scott came to two conclusions as he loafed that afternoon. The first was that, as his father had said, all of the answers to his questions were already inside him. All along there had been that part of him that knew what it was doing, even when he didn’t. It was the part of him that had called his father back, and it was the part that came through for him in crises when his thoughts and fears weren’t choking off the flow. It seemed funny to him now that it took getting his brain bounced around inside his head to get the message to stick. He would have to thank Billy McIlroy someday.

The other realization centered on Melany’s grandmother. There had been times when Scott had consciously—or more often unconsciously—affected those around him, calming them down, or softening them up, or sidetracking them somehow. But it hadn’t worked on Gran. He still winced when he thought about how hard she had slapped him. Whatever innate calming talents he had probably wouldn’t work on Billy McIlroy or the Henshaw brothers, either. He could baffle them, maybe, but softening them up would most likely require a tranquilizer gun from 100 yards. He realized there were some people he could reach, and some he couldn’t, and there was nothing he could do about the “Unreachables.” He also realized he had to be very conscientious about those he could get to. There might be a lot of temptation to manipulate other peoples’ thoughts to get what he wanted. He would have to be careful with that.

He lolled in bed and watched the patches of sunlight and shadow move silently across the rolling pasture, and he sighed. There was so much to do, so much to learn, and he had only taken a first baby step. But at least now he knew he could walk.

******

Peter and Eugenie put in a long weekend working on their Midnight Press stories, and by Monday morning it looked as if their pieces would be in good shape for the 6 p.m. deadline. Then their editor dropped his bombshell on them.

“We have a development,” he said to them in subdued tones after they sat down in his office. “There’s new information, and Deep Poke says he’ll have it for us in our computer within the hour.”

“What is it?” Peter asked, suppressing a yawn.

“It may be the rest of the starman story,” the editor said evenly.

Both reporters reacted to that. “What?” Eugenie blurted. “He cracked the FSA computers?”

“No. It seems someone else has been working on this. I’m going to take a look at what Deep Poke’s got, and then I’ll make a decision on whether or not to use it.”

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic,” Peter observed.

“I’m not. If this is what I think it is, our whole story may turn out to be a lot less than what we thought it was. And if this new information is something we can use, there’s no way we could rewrite and be ready to go to press on deadline.”

“What does that mean?” Eugenie asked.

“I’d have to consult with the publisher, but if he okays it, we’re ready to move everything back 24 hours and have the edition on the streets Saturday instead of Friday.”

The two reporters looked at each other in amazement. “Is this new stuff that big?” Peter asked.

“It could be. I’ll let you know in an hour. Meanwhile, finish up what you’ve got. And be ready to start over. We’ll make it worth your while.”

Less than 45 minutes later, Peter and Eugenie got the word to rewrite. Each was given information to use as an anchor for rewriting what they had already done, and the editor told them what he wanted in their new stories. They were surprised when they saw the new copy, and when they saw the other writer’s name still on the text, they were even more surprised.

Peter and Eugenie faced this new material change glumly, and she in particular wasn’t happy about accepting this without question. She asked the editor petulantly, “Why are you going with someone else’s research over ours?”

“I’m not going with this over yours,” he said. “The two sets of research complement each other. And this writer has answered all the questions you weren’t able to.” Eugenie rankled at that response, and the editor softened. “I’m sure, if you had had the luxury of time, you would have come up with all of this, and it would have been even better. But we don’t have that luxury.”

“So what do we do with the starman angle?” she said. “Just dump it?”

The editor shook his head. “Not at all. Weave this in.”

“But it negates the whole point of saying he’s an alien.”

“We’re going back to the original idea of getting the whole story as fairly and accurately as we can. We’ll play both sides of the story against the middle and let the readers decide.” This piece of news did not gladden the reporters’ hearts. There was something freeing in being totally irresponsible about what they wrote, and they were losing that. The editor recognized the resistance in their faces, and he said firmly, “Are you going to do this my way, or am I going to have someone else finish this?”

This was no idle threat and they knew it. All of their work was in the computer; a nip here, a tuck there, and someone else would get their story and their completion bonus. “Whatever you say,” Peter said. Eugenie nodded.

The editor smiled with forced cheerfulness. “I knew I could count on you. Now go out there and make a 24-hour miracle.”

******

Scott had a good day at school on Monday after his restful weekend. He got some strange looks from teachers and students who knew about his Friday confrontation, but no one stared harder at Scott than Billy, who was stopped dead in his tracks as the two encountered each other in the hallway. Scott smiled slightly as the bewildered Billy and his ubiquitous minions searched Scott’s face in vain for Billy’s handiwork. That Scott’s face showed no sign of the violence Billy had inflicted upon it was unbelievable and an offense to their sensibilities. Scott had no intention of provoking Billy by rubbing this in, but when Billy challenged him on what this was supposed to mean, he replied quietly, “I guess you didn’t hit me as hard as you thought you did.” He shrugged, then went to his next class and left them to wonder about how he pulled this off.

******

The break-in at the Sampson Springs, Oregon Shelter House wasn’t noticed right away. Nothing obvious was taken. No one knew something had happened until Samantha Eppler, the shelter’s clinical assistant, was taking care of some routine paperwork and noticed several folders in her case files were in the wrong places. The folders were in alphabetical order, simply in the wrong files. She asked the other staff members about it, but no one had been in the files.

When Samantha called the police, the officer who responded to the call asked her if there might be something of value in the files that a thief could use for, say, blackmail purposes. Samantha had followed the starman brouhaha with some interest, having secretly recognized the person in question as a special friend she had once had. But a connection didn’t occur to her. She was pretty much the only one who knew about Paul being there.

The police officer suggested she do a thorough check to make sure everything was now where it should be. She did, and when she discovered that one particular case history was missing, her heart sank—it was her in-depth, no-explanations-offered account of the strange two-month stay of Scott Heyden/Paul Forrester.

******

Paul drove into yet another small town near Lake Superior on a cold and blustery Wednesday afternoon. It was hardly a town, as it consisted of two bars, a grocery and fishing supply store, a post office, and four houses. One of the bars touted itself as a sandwich shop, and a sandwich sounded like a good idea. He parked in front and stretched tiredly. He looked around at the little town. The post office was across the street from the sandwich place. He would ask there, too, about any women artists in the area after he finished eating.

It was late afternoon, and only a handful of people were inside the shop. Paul settled in at the counter and looked at the sandwich selection posted on the wall. A smug old fisherman was sitting at the counter, and he sized up Paul in a glance. “New here, huh?”

Paul smiled at him. “Yes.” He pointed at the sandwich selection. “What do you recommend?”

“I recommend you eat somewhere else.”

The old fisherman laughed, and a woman who appeared from the back scoldingly nudged his arm as she went past. “You hush.” She stopped before Paul. “Do you need a few minutes to make up your mind?”

“What do you recommend?” he asked her.

“I recommend the tuna. We’re just about out of everything else.”

“I’ll have the tuna,” Paul said.

She took the order into the back, and the old man looked at Paul. “I see you’re from Washington state.”

Paul looked at his car, and its front Washington license plate was visible through the window. “Yes.”

“Just visiting?” the man asked.

“I’m looking for someone.”

The old fisherman’s eyes lit up. “Who? Maybe I know him.”

“I don’t know her name, but she’s an artist. Late 30s, shoulder-length dark hair.”

The old man frowned as he thought. “An artist? Hhm. Mabel,” he called to the back, “isn’t Kathy Ferguson’s sister an artist?”

Mabel appeared from the back with Paul’s sandwich. “I think so.” She set the sandwich in front of Paul with a smile. “Here you go.”

Paul frowned as he bit into the sandwich. Jenny didn’t have a sister. But it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “What’s her name?”

The old fisherman looked at Mabel as he cogitated. “Laura Johnson, I think. Divorced,” he said with a knowing nod.

Paul thought as he took another bite. Jenny Hayden, JH, Karen Iseley, KI, Laura Johnson, LJ. It was in the same sequence.

“Why are you looking for her?” the man asked. “Did you see a painting or something—”

Paul didn’t hear the rest of what he said. A lilting laugh had floated into the shop from the street behind him. Paul dropped his sandwich on the plate and turned around. Through the window he could see a woman in front of the post office. It was Jenny. She was talking with someone, and they were laughing. The other person went into the post office, and Jenny walked towards a small station wagon.

Jenny had opened the car door when she saw a figure approaching. She looked up and stared as Paul walked towards her. Without a word, they put their arms around each other and held on, making sure this was real. She laughed as she looked at him with disbelieving eyes. “How did you find me?”

“I looked.”

She laughed again. “Where’s Scott?”

Paul shook his head. “He’s not here.”

Concern rippled across her face. “Where is he?”

“Montana.”

She blinked with surprise. “Montana?”

“He’s safe.”

She tried to think what to do next. “Do you have a car?”

“Yes.” He indicated his car across the street.

She smiled. “Follow me home.” They got into their cars and left.

Mabel and the old fisherman watched the cars leave. He said, “I wish women whose names I didn’t know would say hello to me like that.”

Mabel frowned as she looked at the unpaid-for, half-eaten sandwich. “Young people do things differently now. That’s why they have so many diseases.”

She reached to discard the sandwich, but the old man put a couple dollars on the counter and winked as he picked up the untouched half. “Come on, Mabel. Haven’t you ever been in love?” She scowled at him for a moment, then softened into a smile.

******

Paul followed Jenny to a cabin tucked away in the woods on a small lake a few miles from Lake Superior. He noticed the name “Ferguson” on the mailbox out on the road before the half-mile ride to the cabin.

A cold wind was gusting in from the north, and Jenny started a fire in the Franklin stove to warm up the cabin. As she worked, she sent Paul into the kitchen to make sandwiches and answered his question about Kathy Ferguson by saying Kathy was a childhood friend and Jenny had dropped in on her at her cabin with a request to stay for a while. Kathy had told everyone Jenny was her sister who was going through a “messy divorce” and needed privacy and quiet. Kathy had returned to her winter job in Milwaukee, so Jenny had the cabin to herself.

She finished building up the fire at the same time he came out with the sandwiches, and they sat on the sofa to eat. She asked him about how he had found her, where Scott was, and how they were doing. Paul answered her questions, then filled her in about Mark Shermin’s book and the resulting commotion (she already knew about both), and he told her about the tabloid newspapers and Abigail’s plan to trick the Midnight Press. Jenny listened thoughtfully, and when Paul finished telling her, with some regret, about what Out of Focus said about her, she smiled slightly and held his hand. “I’ve always been prepared for people finding out what happened. It’s okay. You did what your lawyer thought was best. If it works, it’ll be worth it.” She smiled. “When can we call Scott and have him come here?”

“I’ll write to Evan tomorrow. If he calls us right away, it’ll be Friday.”

“Friday!” She laughed with delight. “Tell me more about him. Is he good? Is he a nice kid? Most teenagers get kind of obnoxious.”

Paul frowned. “Obnoxious?”

“Oh, like talking back, and giving you a hard time, and not wanting to do their homework. Like that.”

He nodded. “He does that sometimes. But he’s a good person.”

She shook her head. “This is going to be hard. I keep thinking of him as being three years old. How tall is he now?”

“In July, he was almost as tall as I am.”

She sighed with a gentle chuckle. “This is going to be tough.” She shook her head with determination. “No. I can do it. I can handle it.”

Paul smiled. “That’s what Scott always says. ‘I can handle it.’“

She smiled with delight. “He does?” She smiled, contemplating this unexpected family trait. “What does he look like? Does he look like Scott did?”

“More like you, I think.” He smiled. “I’ll show you.” He took his sphere from his pocket and connected with it. A blue swirl surrounded them, and then Paul faded behind the image of Scott as he had been at the “birthday” party. Jenny marveled at the sight, reaching out tentatively and touching the image of Scott’s cheek with a mother’s hand. “He’s so beautiful. ... What’s his voice like?”

“Expressive,” Paul said, but it was Scott’s voice. “Boisterous, full of energy. He likes to joke around a lot, and it’s in his voice.”

She delighted in what she saw, and tears came to her eyes. Paul stopped the image. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

She laughed tenderly. “It’s okay. It’s so wonderful. Maybe we can make a plane reservation for him now. Do you know where in Montana he is?”

“He flew to Billings.”

“Let’s see, we could call him right away, and maybe he could be here ...,” she smiled, “Friday night. Are you sure we can’t call right now and get the number?”

Paul shook his head. “Their phone line is tapped. I’ll write them tomorrow.” She nodded, and Paul regarded her with welling love in his heart. “Jenny, I’d like for us to be married.”

Her smile was tinged with sadness. “I can’t think about that while Scott’s out there somewhere. When he’s with us, and safe, then we can talk about it.”

Paul took her comment as a refusal, and his distress registered on his face. She saw this and smiled, touching his cheek and marveling again at how gentle he was. She kissed him, and this led to another kiss, and another. Their brief times together had been so long ago and far away, but all that no longer mattered now. They were together, and they would not be separated again.

******

Wednesday afternoon, Abigail was surprised but happy when Carolyn, her novelist friend, phoned her to say she had received an offer she couldn’t refuse from the Midnight Press. “They bought it, lock, stock and barrel,” she said, “and they wanted the whole thing sent by modem immediately. I thought you said they were going to steal it.”

“I thought they were. How weird. Well, whatever. They went for it, that’s the important thing.”

“For you, maybe, but that piece of schlock had my name on it!” Carolyn wailed. “How am I supposed to live that down?”

“On what you’re being paid for this job,” Abigail said, “you can change your name and take a two-month cruise of the Caribbean.”

Abigail called Liz to tell her the Midnight Press had taken the bait. Liz said she hoped this wouldn’t get out of control. Abigail concluded the call by saying the situation was well in hand, and she sat back with a Cheshire Cat smile to wait for Paul’s regular check-in call Thursday morning so she could tell him the great news.

The next morning Paul called at his regular time, and Abigail reveled in their success. “We did it,” she kvelled. “I’ll call you after the paper hits the streets on Friday and we can decide on the best way to protest their story. It’s all downhill from here.”

Paul wrote Evan and Stephanie at her business post office box address and detailed his situation, including the entire Midnight Press scheme and Jenny’s phone number and mailing address. Jenny mailed the letter for him, and then they began a long, tough wait to see what was going to happen.

******

On their run of Friday morning errands, Evan dropped Stephanie off at a market across the street from the sheriff’s office and then went to the post office. He picked up Paul’s letter and read it with delight. He usually drove all the way to Mt. Horeb to use a pay phone as his “safe phone,” but for such an occasion he knew he could go to his neighbors. He was heading to his Cherokee when Calvin, a Rockland County deputy, met them in the parking lot and told him that Kelly wanted to see him in her office immediately. He was surprised and more than a little concerned at this, but after he put the mail, including Paul’s letter, in the car, he dutifully obeyed and went to the sheriff’s office.

Kelly’s office door was open, but she was going over some papers and Evan knocked anyway. She signaled for him to come in, close the door, and sit. He did as she indicated. She had a discerning edge that put him on guard. “What can I do for you?” he asked with as much innocent charm as he could muster.

She eyed him intently. “Evan, I would like to ask you a simple question, and I would like for you to give me a complete and honest answer.”

Evan frowned. This didn’t bode well. “I’ll do my best.”

“Do you know the whereabouts of Paul Forrester and/or Scott Hayden?”

He looked at her, then shifted in his chair. “I wouldn’t call that a simple question.”

“I would. Do you know where they are?”

“... Are you asking me as the sheriff or as a friend?”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” she said sharply. “It should be the same answer.”

He looked around the room casually, then out the window at the market across the street. “What is this in regard to?”

“Evan, remember, you can’t fool me. I know your tactics. You avoid answering questions by asking other questions. And don’t say, ‘Do I?’“

He had been about to, and stopped. “I have a question,” he said innocently.

She frowned. “What?”

“Am I allowed to take the Fifth?”

She didn’t like that response. “Okay, I’ll make it easy for you.” She took off her sheriff’s badge and deposited it in a desk drawer. “Now. Do you know where they are?”

He wasn’t going to get out of it and he knew it. He took a deep breath. “Yes.” She growled indignantly as she buried her face in her hands. He said quietly, “If you don’t want to know, you shouldn’t ask.”

She eyed him as a teacher would view the problem child in the back row. “Actually, Evan, I don’t care. I just had some information that I thought—if you could—you’d like to pass on to them.”

She turned around a piece of paper before her on the desk and slid it to Evan. He looked at it for a moment, then he jumped to his feet. “ _What?_ ” Kelly said nothing, watching her problem child go into shock. Evan couldn’t believe his eyes. “They _canceled the warrants?_ ”

“Mm-hhm.”

Evan looked over the page. “But, but, this isn’t a rescindment order. This is just a notice dumped in with a bunch of memos. I don’t get it.”

“They’re obviously trying to keep this as low-key as possible.”

He stared in bewilderment at her. “Is this for real?”

“As near as I can tell. I checked on the wiretaps on you, Mrs. Keitzer, and Stephanie’s business phone. They’re all off.”

This was too much for Evan. He sat down abruptly. He looked the paper over again, trying to make this real. “They canceled the warrants. They’re not wanted anymore.”

“Nope.”

“It’s over.”

“Well, whatever that means, yes.” She leaned forward with a confidential smile. “I could never find out what this was all about. But Evan, I know you. You know. And you owe me a big favor. We’ll be even if you tell me what this was all about.”

It was beginning to sink in, and Evan was smiling with glee. “It’s over.” He started laughing.

“Evan. You have to tell me.”

He stood up, full of nervous energy. “I can’t.”

“Evan!”

“Honest, I can’t, ... at least, not until you meet him.”

Kelly stood up. She wasn’t going to let him get out of this. “And what makes you think they’re going to come back?”

“Look, Kelly, I’m sorry, I gotta go. I gotta tell Stephanie, and I gotta call Paul, because, ... my God, it’s over!” He kissed the startled Kelly and dashed out the door.

Evan found Stephanie in the small market and animatedly told her the news. She listened with interest as she finished their shopping. “Isn’t it wonderful?” he ended with a flourish.

She smiled at him. “I’m happy to see our daughters will have someone their own age to relate to.”

He laughed as they walked to the checkout. “I guess the feds got tired of the money drain and the embarrassment. I can’t believe it.” They stopped next to the cash register. “Well,” he said, “Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, ... it’s over.” But Evan couldn’t savor the moment as he saw Stephanie’s ashen stare at something near the register. “What is it?”

“I think the creek just rose.”

Evan followed her gaze and blanched. Next to the register was a rack full of copies of the National Weekly News. Filling the front page was a photo of Scott under the bold headline: “$25,000 REWARD FOR CAPTURE OF ‘STARMAN’S SON!’“

The two stared at the front page for a moment, then Evan ripped a copy of the paper from the rack and turned frantically to the story. The checkout clerk watched them. “Yeah, that kid looked familiar. Do we know him?”

Evan and Stephanie didn’t hear her. Evan read through the story until he found what he was looking for. “Wait—look—look—this based on the federal warrant. The reward’s because he’s wanted by the feds. But he’s not. This isn’t valid.”

Stephanie looked at her husband seriously. “We know that, but the millions of people who see the paper and the hundreds who actually go looking for Scott don’t know that.”

“But without the warrant, this is a felony,” Evan stammered. “It’s promotion of kidnapping.”

“So do something.”

They paid for their purchases and raced home. Evan called Paul and explained the good news and the bad news to him as quickly and simply as he could. He instructed Paul to call his lawyer and get an injunction to have the papers yanked off the shelves. He also gave Paul the Sullivans’ phone number in Montana and told him to tell Scott to hide with Bud and Flo until this was over.

Paul called the Sullivans, but there was no answer. He called Abigail. Chagrined and apologetic, she already knew the situation and had an injunction in the works. She also told Paul the unsettling news that there was no new edition of the Midnight Press on the stands as there should have been—her clerk had called a distributor and found out the paper was being delayed a day “by technical difficulties”—so there was no alternate version of the story to mitigate the situation. She regretted not having listened to Paul’s concerns about calling Scott earlier, and she said she would do everything in her power to put an end to this as soon as possible.

Jenny listened in on the conversation with quiet alarm, and when Paul hung up she asked him what they could do.

“I don’t know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Can you contact Scott with your sphere?”

“Yes, but it’s risky. If he’s not alone, his sphere going off could be difficult for him.”

“I think it’s worth the risk.”

He knew she was right. He connected with his sphere, but to his surprise there was no response on the other end. When he looked deeper, he couldn’t even sense that Scott was nearby.

“Well?” Jenny said. Paul shook his head as he put his sphere away. “Is something wrong, or are you just not getting through?”

“I don’t know. He’s not there.”

Jenny tried to keep her apprehension in check. “Let’s try calling the Sullivans again.”

There was still no answer at the Sullivans’, and there was nothing left that Paul and Jenny could do except worry.

******

When Scott got dressed after his Phy. Ed. class, he had the vague feeling that something had happened. He held his sphere in his jeans pocket. Strange. There was something ... he didn’t know what. He would have to check it out later.

After school, Nokay picked Scott up in the Sullivans’ truck and they drove to the ranch, where their horses were ready for the weekend camping trip. As Scott and Nokay were approaching the house, they could hear the phone ringing inside, but it stopped by the time they got through the front door. No one was home—Bud would be out in one of the pastures at this time of day and a note on the refrigerator told Scott that Flo was in town taking Lisa to the dentist—so Scott left a note of his own telling them he would see them Sunday evening. The weather seemed to be taking a turn for the worse, so they packed extra rain gear. With a last quick check to make sure they had everything, they were off.

******

Paul called the Sullivans’ number every 10 minutes, and finally he got through. Bud answered. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Paul said with some relief as he tilted the phone out from his ear so Jenny could lean in and hear with him. “Is Scott there?”

“No, I’m sorry, he’s not here.”

Paul’s heart sank as Jenny sighed with distress. Paul asked, “Do you expect him back soon?”

“No, not really. Can I help you?”

“I’m Scott’s father. It’s very important that I talk with him.”

“Scott’s father, huh?” Bud’s voice took on a decided coolness. “Well, he’s gone camping for the weekend. I don’t expect him back until Sunday.”

“Sunday!” Paul and Jenny looked at each other with dismay. “Mr. Sullivan, it’s very important that we get in touch with him. Is there any way to reach him?”

“Nope. I’m not exactly sure where he is.”

Jenny looked at Paul. “What are we going to do?”

Paul shook his head and said to her, “Calling the police might backfire.” He said to Bud, “We have to talk with him immediately. We don’t know what to do.”

“Why the big rush all of a sudden?” Bud said coldly. “Mr. Prentice, pardon me for being blunt, but I’m not very impressed with you as a parent. Scott’s lived with us for four months now, and not once during that whole time did you write or call him. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Paul glanced at Jenny. “You’re right, Mr. Sullivan. I did what I thought was best. Now I don’t think it was the right thing. Thank you. I’m grateful you care so much about him.”

Bud was disarmed by Paul’s candor and sputtered a moment. “Well, it’s easy to care about Scott. He’s a good kid.” Jenny smiled at Paul. “Look, Mr. Prentice, I’m sorry about sounding off like that. It’s none of my business. And I think I might know where Scott and Nokay are headed. They’re going on horseback, so they’re probably taking a back trail I know to the park. I can drive along part of it in my truck. If it’s that important, I can go look for him as soon as my wife gets home.”

“Yes, thank you. It is that important.”

“Okay. Flo ought to be home anytime. What am I supposed to tell him?”

“Tell him I’m with his mother and he should call me immediately.” Paul gave Bud Jenny’s phone number, and Bud dutifully wrote down the message.

“Okay. I’ll call around to his friends, too.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”

Jenny added, “Mr. Sullivan, I’m Scott’s mother. Please, if anyone asks you about Scott, could you protect him and don’t tell anyone where he is?”

Concern registered in Bud’s voice. “Why not?”

“He’s in danger and he doesn’t know it.”

“Danger? What kind of danger?”

“Like being kidnapped. It’s a long story, Mr. Sullivan, and I’d rather Scott hear it from us. So just have him call us, okay?”

“Sure. Whatever I can do to help.”

Paul decided to take a chance. “Oh, and Mr. Sullivan, do you know if Scott had with him a small metal ... sphere?”

“Oh, that ball bearing thing. He had it for a while. I remember he lost it. He was pretty upset. I don’t know if he ever found it again. Is it valuable or something?”

“In a way. Thank you. I was just checking.”

“Okay, well, I’ll go out as soon as Flo gets back. And don’t worry, Mrs. Prentice. I won’t let anybody near your son.”

“Thank you,” Jenny said with a frightened, hopeful glance to Paul.

******

Scott and Nokay’s camping trip ended almost as soon as it began. A cloudburst caught them while they were on their way past Macklen, and as they were negotiating a treacherous stretch on the trail Nokay’s horse slipped and fell, throwing Nokay to the ground. The horse hurt no more that its pride, but Nokay’s arm was broken. Scott used his Swiss Army knife to turn some branches and strips from an expendable shirt into a rough splint for Nokay’s arm, and they headed for town.

Macklen’s storefront medical clinic wasn’t busy so Nokay went straight in to see the doctor. Scott called Melany to meet them in town so she could take Nokay home. She arrived 20 minutes later in Nokay’s battered old Plymouth Valiant, and she and Scott decided to wait outside.

Most of Macklen’s stores were lined up with a long parking lot in back, and the clinic fronted the lot. On the other side of the lot, cattle grazed beyond a brand new sign from the merchants’ association boosting the high school. Melany had spotted Scott and Nokay’s horses tied to the hitching post near the clinic and had parked nearby.

Scott and Melany decided to stow Nokay’s gear in the Valiant before it rained again. As they took the bags from the horses to the car, Melany suggested that Scott call Bud to pick him up so he wouldn’t have to take the horses home by himself in the rain. Scott shrugged it off. “Rain doesn’t bother me. Besides,” he said with a smile, “that isn’t The Cowboy Way.”

“Oh, I forgot something. Mr. Sullivan called me just before you did. He said if I heard from you, you were supposed to call him right away and it was very important.”

“Okay. Is there a pay phone around here?”

“Down by the drug store.”

Scott looked up at the overcast sky. It looked as if the rain would hold off for a while, so he took off his rain slicker and tossed his hat in the back of the Valiant. “I’ll be right back.”

Scott started across the expanse of pavement towards the drug store. He could see the pay phone as he approached, but someone was using it. He reached into his pocket to get out his change when a voice called to him from behind. “Scott?” He turned and saw a man he didn’t recognize walking towards at him. “Your name is Scott, isn’t it?” the man said with a facile smile.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I thought so. I’ve seen you around town. Could you do me a favor? I’m having trouble getting my car started,” he said with a quick smile as he pointed over his shoulder back out to the far edge of the parking lot. “All I need is a little push to get it to turn over. It won’t take more than a minute.”

Scott looked back at the pay phone, and the man who had been on the phone had finished and left. “Look, I have to make a phone call.”

“It won’t take a minute,” the man said with an easy charm. “Two at the most. And it would really help me out. I’ll give you the quarter for the call. Please?”

Scott looked around. There weren’t many people near the store, and he didn’t see anyone within easy reach who was strong enough to push a car. Well, one minute wouldn’t hurt. “Okay.”

“Great,” the man said and escorted Scott away from the store.

The man made small talk as they approached his sedan, which was parked near a pile of assorted timber left over from the construction of the new booster sign. As they got to the car, Scott went to the back bumper to push, but the man opened the back door. “You can push from here.”

Scott frowned. “This is fine. I can push here.”

The man came around next to Scott, his smooth smile turning into something harder. “I want you over there.” Scott saw the sharp flash of a buck knife and gasped as a cold razor edge of steel caught him under the chin. “Go.”

“Are you nuts?” Scott said before the man silenced him by pressing the knife a little higher.

“You’re worth 25,000 bucks,” he said as he used the knife under Scott’s chin to direct him to the car’s open back door. “I’d be nuts to let you get away.” With a swift gesture, he pulled the knife away and pushed Scott face down onto the car’s backseat. Before Scott could get up, the man pressed his knee into Scott’s back and grabbed his hands, tying them with stout rope. Scott struggled, but it was no use. Scott’s face was lying on some papers, and when he lifted his head, he saw with horror that it was his own photo on the front of a tabloid newspaper. But he couldn’t look at it for long, as the man shoved him further into the car like so much baggage and started binding his thrashing legs.

Scott was beginning to panic, but then he heard a sickening thud behind him and felt the man collapse on him and roll onto the floor of the backseat. Scott turned and looked back as best he could, and he saw a frightened Melany standing by the car’s door, a two-by-four in her hands. “Quick!” Scott shouted as struggled. “Cut me loose!”

She pulled the groaning man out of the way, found the knife, and hesitantly started sawing at the rope around Scott’s wrists. “Scott!” she choked with fear. “What’s going on?”

“Just cut me loose!” This wasn’t the time to find a way to explain this to Melany. At last the rope gave way, and Scott pulled his hands free and crawled back out of the car. “Melany, go get the car right now!” She was confused and frightened, but she ran to the Valiant. Scott searched through the man’s pockets and found his car keys. He went around to the driver’s door. He dropped the keys on the pavement just behind the front tire, then shifted the car into neutral. He pulled the car back a few inches, covering the car keys with the tire, then shifted the car back into park and locked the parking brake. With a last look to see that the man was still moving slightly, he grabbed the newspaper from the back seat, jammed it into his jacket’s inside pocket, and dashed across the parking lot towards the approaching Valiant. He jumped in the passenger side and shouted, “Go! Get out of here!” Melany pushed the old car to its limit and they roared out of the parking lot and out of town.

“Scott!” Melany shouted as they sped down the highway. “What was going on?”

“I don’t know,” he said, trying to sound convincing in his agitation. “Some pervert or something.”

She frowned. “I know Jack Smith. He’s a creep, but he’s not a pervert. I don’t understand!”

Scott could see where she was driving. “No, don’t go to the Sullivans. I can’t go there.”

“Why not?”

“They know I’ve been living there. I can’t go back.”

“But Mr. Sullivan—”

“Melany,” he said forcefully, “I can’t go back there. I’ve got to get out of here.”

The urgency in his voice cut through her. She shook her head. At the intersection with the road that led to the Sullivans’ ranch, she turned the car the other way and they headed out of the county. “Where am I taking you?”

“I don’t know. Just away.”

“But where are you going?”

“Melany, I’m sorry, I need to think. Give me a few minutes.” Scott desperately tried to quiet his reeling mind. He wanted to look at the tabloid and see what it said, but he didn’t want Melany to see it. Holding his jacket so she couldn’t see what he was doing, Scott took the newspaper out of his pocket and folded the front page over. He took the paper out and started to read.

She saw what he was doing. “What is that?”

“Later.” He hated being rude, especially to her, but he had to take care of himself first. He skimmed the article. It was a nightmare. Full of dates and facts, it hit the bizarre high points of his life, from escaping the Lockharts’ car crash to saving Tim Kilpatrick’s life. The worst part was even though it was written in a hyped style, virtually everything in it was true.

He jammed the paper back under his jacket and tried to clamp down his panic. The first thing he needed to do was see where he stood now. He had to face the fact that this was in every grocery store in America and everyone knew who he was. He groaned to himself. He didn’t stand a chance. He shook off his despair and tried to think again. The story was just about him, not his dad. Okay. No one knew who his dad was—yet. He was the only one on the run. But where could he go? Seattle? No, too hot. It was mentioned in the story. This was Mark Shermin’s fault—maybe he should drop in on him. Scratch that. He wasn’t sure he remembered what Mark Shermin looked like. He had to hide some place where his dad would think to look for him. Spirit Lake? Ironwood? Albuquerque? Saguaro? No way. He would need money to get to any of those places and stay there, and he had maybe 20 bucks. And he had nearly $1200 in cash under his mattress! He cursed under his breath. What was he going to do? He kept seeing Mary’s face. He looked at the article. His wild boat ride with Tom was featured prominently. Going to Madison would be much too obvious. Even Fox would figure that out. But maybe it was so obvious no one would expect him to do it. Mary was the only person he could think of who could get him out of this.

“East,” he said.

“East?”

“Yeah, just drive east for a while and drop me off.”

“Drop you off where?”

“Someplace where I can catch a freight train or something.”

“Scott!” she wailed with disbelief. “What are you doing?”

“... It’s hard to explain. But it’s just the way I have to live right now. Maybe always.”

“I don’t get it, I don’t get any of it.”

“Please, just drive. You can drop me off and you’ll never have to worry about it again.” Scott turned stiffly and looked out the window. The subject was closed. Melany looked at him, now more annoyed than frightened. But she drove east.

******

The commotion in the Macklen parking lot was in full swing when Nokay emerged from the clinic with his new cast, ready to go home. A group of people had gathered in the middle of the lot, and when Nokay stepped out into the lot to look for Scott and Melany, several men in the group spotted him and one pointed at him. “He was with him.” The group reformed around the baffled Nokay as several men started asking him questions at once.

The sheriff stepped in and took charge. “You’re Nokay Tall Man?”

“Yeah.”

“You own a dark green Plymouth Valiant?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know where it is right now?”

This wasn’t making any sense to Nokay. “No.”

“Do you know someone named Scott Prentice or Scott Hayden?”

“Yeah, Scott Prentice. He lives with Bud and Flo Sullivan.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I thought he was out here.”

“Do you know an Indian girl, about 16, who’d be driving your car?”

“My cousin Melly—Melany Parsons.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I thought she’d be out here with Scott. She’s supposed to drive me home.”

Nursing a bump on the back of his head, Jack Smith pushed through the crowd to stand next to the sheriff and Nokay. “Sheriff! Why are you wasting time talking? He’s getting away! He tried to kill me!”

The sheriff said coolly, “Jack, just relax. We have to straighten a few things out first.”

“But he tried to kill me! He used some sort of alien death ray or something! Knocked me clean out!”

The sheriff said caustically, “If it was a death ray, how come you’re still alive?”

Jack fumed. “Well, it’s at least assault and battery! Or attempted murder! And they stole my car keys, too!”

The sheriff stated with pointed authority, “Jack, I got a phone call not ten minutes before this happened from some sheriff in Wisconsin asking me to keep an eye on Scott Prentice because someone might try to kidnap him. Does this sound familiar to you?”

Jack stammered, “But there’s a warrant on him. The feds want him. There’s a reward!”

“Well, we can’t find a warrant in the computer, so just keep your britches on!”

Nokay was thoroughly confused. “Sheriff, what’s going on?”

The sheriff led Nokay away from the others. “I’m still trying to get all the facts straight, but right now it looks like your friend Scott got into a fight with Jack and your cousin blindsided him with a two-by-four and they took off.” Nokay couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Do you have any idea where they might go? I’m not going to arrest anybody, I just want to find out what happened. I don’t believe Jack is telling me the whole story.”

“The only place I think they’d go is back to the Sullivans’.”

“Okay, thanks. If you hear from them, tell them to call me.”

“Sure.”

The sheriff headed back towards his office, and the crowd dispersed, some people following the sheriff, Jack Smith most notably among them, and the rest wandering off to discuss this at the nearest bar. Still bewildered by the sudden events, Nokay stood alone in the parking lot, looking at their two horses tethered by the clinic, wondering what was going on and how he was going to get home. Then Jack Smith’s angry voice floated back before he and the sheriff disappeared into the office: “I told you, he’s that half-alien kid from the Starman book!”

Nokay blinked with surprise. He had read _Conversations with a Starman_. They thought Scott was ...? He knew it! Scott was too good to be _all_ white. He laughed out loud.

******

Half an hour later, as they were driving through the next county, Scott and Melany heard the radio report Scott didn’t want to hear. “Garnet County authorities are looking for two teenagers in connection with an assault in Macklen this afternoon,” the newscaster said. “Garnet County Sheriff Jim Dale said they’re not suspects, but he says they’re material witnesses and he wants them to contact his office immediately. The two, described as a 17-year-old white male and a 16-year-old Indian female, were last seen driving north on Highway—”

Melany abruptly turned the radio off. She pulled the car over on the empty highway and turned off the motor. “Scott, I think we should go back.”

Scott shook his head. “I can’t.”

“But they don’t want to arrest us.”

“You don’t understand. It isn’t that simple for me.”

“You’re right,” she said plainly, “I don’t understand. What is it with you? Why are you running away like this? He was trying to kidnap you. Why didn’t you go to the sheriff?”

He had hoped he could avoid this, but now there was no other way out. He took the tabloid out from his jacket and showed her the front page. She stared at it for a moment, then took it from him. She opened the paper to the story and read a bit. Then she looked at him, alarm in her eyes. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

She looked at the paper, then back at him. “Your name is really Scott Hayden?” He nodded. “This has to do with that Starman book, doesn’t it?” He nodded again. She eyed him keenly. “Is this article true?”

He tried a shrug. “You don’t actually believe those newspapers, do you?”

“Scott,” she said sharply, “I thought we were friends. You owe me the truth. Are you,” she struggled with saying it, “... the son of that guy in the book?”

He didn’t want to say it. But she was right, he did owe her the truth. “Yes.” She shuddered at his answer, not expecting it. Scott wasn’t surprised when that familiar curtain of suspicion came down between them and she looked at him as if for the first time. He said quietly, “I’ll get out here. You can go home.”

He turned to open the door, but she stopped him. “Wait.” She looked at the article again. “Did you really do all these things?”

“What I read, yeah.”

She eyed him, then she remembered something with surprise. “Is that why you weren’t hurt after Billy McIlroy hit you?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“So if you go back, the sheriff will have to hand you over to federal people.”

Scott nodded. “Fox is probably on his way here already.”

“Does me helping you get away make me guilty of something?”

“Maybe. But Fox doesn’t care. He just wants my dad and me.”

She thought for a long moment. Then she started the car and turned it out onto the highway, still driving east. “Where are you going?” she asked with resolve.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going with you.”

“ _What?_ Melany, you can’t go with me.”

“I can’t go back. I’m not facing Gran after being mixed up with this. It’s a lot easier for everyone if I just keep going.”

“You can’t go with me.”

“Yes, I can. It’s my car.”

“It’s not your car!”

She frowned. “Nokay will understand.”

Scott was dumbfounded. “Melany, this isn’t a game. You don’t understand what it’s like living like this.”

“Where are we going?” she said stubbornly.

“I’m going to my grandparents.” He said pointedly, “In Wisconsin. And I don’t even have enough money for three tanks of gas for this car.”

She paled a bit. “Wisconsin?”

“Yes. So stop the car and let me out. You go home.”

She pulled the old car off onto the shoulder. He turned to open the door but she stopped him again. “Scott,” she said slowly, “I can’t go back. Gran will kill me. I mean really kill me. You know how angry she gets. I can’t go back there. And you can’t make me go home. If you get out of the car, it doesn’t make any difference. I’m not going back.”

Scott sighed. “Melany, you don’t understand. There are people who’ve seen my picture, and they’re going to try and get that 25,000 bucks any way they can.”

“I can help you,” she said sadly.

“It would really help me if I knew you were home where you belonged. Go stay with the Sullivans for a couple days until your grandmother cools down. They’re going to need some help with Nokay’s arm broken and me gone. Please, Melany. Go home.”

She sat for a long, sad moment. She indicated the road before them. “About ten miles from here is a town where I think the train goes through. Let me drop you off there.” She turned the car out onto the road, and neither said a word for the rest of the trip.

About a mile out of town, train tracks began to parallel the highway. As they approached, they could see a freight train sitting at the rundown train depot at the edge of the small town. The two engines were facing east, and that was a welcome piece of good luck. There were a few people who looked like railroad employees walking around the train, and Scott thought maybe it might be leaving soon. However, the area was much too public to get on one of the cars without being seen. He needed time to come up with a plan.

Melany parked the car at an abandoned gas station near the depot, and they got out. Melany looked at her wallet. “I’ve got eight dollars. How much money do you have?”

Scott checked his cash. “Almost 25 bucks.”

She handed him her money. “You’re going to need this.” He tried to protest, but she stopped him. “I’ve got enough gas to get home. Let’s go get some food for your trip.”

They went across the street to a shabby little store and gathered some sensible food for his journey. As they went back to the car, Scott looked around the depot a bit, but there were no blind spots or hidden vantage points from which he could jump onto the train unseen. Catching a car in open country was out of the question; the train would be moving much too fast. Scott followed the track east with his eyes, then he saw what he was looking for. A couple miles out of town the track traveled up a steep rise through hilly, scrubby terrain. There were a couple points near the top where the track could not be seen. His only hope was to get on a boxcar while the train was moving slowly as it reached the top. He looked at the train and saw that most of the cars were empty, so he would have plenty of open cars to choose from. He told Melany his plan and they headed for the hill’s crest.

Melany parked the Valiant in a pocket hidden from the train tracks a quarter mile from the road near the hill’s crest. Scott looked over the situation and picked his spot. There were plenty of bushes near the tracks that hadn’t been cut away, and a cluster of pine trees hid the area from view the other way. He was fairly confident that with a running start he could get into a boxcar without being seen. Melany would stay around until he left, just in case he didn’t make it. Melany had her backpack in the car, and she took out her books and put in Scott’s groceries, and then she put in Nokay’s extra sweater and riding gloves from his bag of gear. When Scott protested, she said with a quiet smile, “That’s okay. Nokay would give you these himself. And I’ll take your school bag in exchange. Yours is a lot better than mine.” With a smile he agreed to the deal.

Scott went down the tracks to a point where he could see the town, and he calculated that it would take the train about 15 minutes to reach his vantage point once it left the depot.

They sat near the car just out of sight of the tracks, waiting for the train’s whistle to signal its departure from the town below. They didn’t speak much, each absorbed with what had happened and what was to come. When the whistle blew, they looked at each other forlornly but said nothing. Scott checked his watch to mark the time. They sat in silence for a while, then she sighed. “Will I ever see you again?”

“I don’t think so.”

She nodded. “You’re going to go home, huh?”

Scott had never said it so plainly before, and the words hurt. “I don’t have a home.”

She reacted with mild surprise. “Not anywhere?”

He shook his head.

“You’re going to your grandparents’, right? Isn’t that sort of home?”

“I can’t stay for very long. The feds know to look there. I don’t even know why I’m going. I guess I don’t have anywhere else to go.” A wave of exhaustion swept over him. If Fox hadn’t had a human—sized test tube waiting with his name on it, Scott might have considered giving up at that moment. How many more years was this running going to last? Ten? Twenty? Fifty ...?

The sound of the approaching train’s whistle snapped him out of his funk. It was time to get ready. He stood up and looked at this girl who might have been someone special to him. He couldn’t just leave her without telling her something. She could sense this was important and stood up with him. “Look, Melany, I just want you to know—”

They turned at the same time at the sound of the approaching truck. They both reacted with alarm at the familiar sight of Billy McIlroy’s red pickup as it bounced over the roadless terrain towards them. Running to the Valiant would be useless; they could never outrun the 4x4. Scott listened for the train, but it was still too far away. There was nowhere to run. They could only stand their ground and wait.

Billy parked his truck near the Valiant and he and Buck Henshaw got out of the cab. Billy smiled as he approached the couple. “Well, you know, I heard all sorts of strange stuff going over the CB heading east, and I thought to myself, hey, that could only be my pal Scott Prentice and his squaw.” He looked at the train tracks. “Leaving, huh? That’s not very nice, especially when we drove all this way to see you.”

Scott’s mind raced as he tried to come up with a way to get himself on the train and get Melany away from these two. It was a puzzle with no solution. Melany inched over to Scott and stood slightly behind him, away from the bullies.

Billy said with a wicked smile, “The first thing we need to do is make sure our guests don’t leave. Buck, get the ax.” Scott and Melany flinched as Buck chuckled with glee and retrieved a hatchet from the truck’s cab. Billy said to him, “Park their car, Buck.” Scott and Melany watched helplessly as Buck swung the small ax into the Valiant’s front left tire and the tire ruptured. Buck then repeated the gesture on the Valiant’s front right tire.

Scott could hear the train’s engine in the distance as it began to labor up the incline. He had maybe four minutes to find a way out of this.

With delight Buck smashed the Valiant’s headlights and he was going to start on the windshield when Billy stopped him. “I think they got the message. Now it’s time for something else. You know, Scott, you never did introduce me to Melany. I know you said she doesn’t put out, but I think maybe it’s time she started.” Terrified, Melany ducked behind Scott as Billy took a step towards her.

The train was getting nearer. Scott had three minutes. There was no other way out of this. “Hold it, Billy,” he said with an unexpected calm in his voice.

“Oh,” Billy said to Buck, “now he wants to play along. Too late, Prentice. After I beat the shit out of you, I’m going to make up for lost time with her.”

Billy took another step towards them, but Scott held out his hand. Two and a half minutes. “Look, Billy, I’m sorry about Carrie and you. But I’m not responsible for what she did, and neither is Melany. So just let us go.”

Billy spat back, “Yeah, well, I want to know how you knew about her, ‘cause it seems to me the only way you’d know is if you were there. So were you? Huh? Did you stick it to her with all the rest of them? Did you?”

Billy’s fury cut through Scott, and without him realizing it infected him with an anger of his own. “Billy,” he shouted back, “I had nothing to do with it!”

Billy retaliated, “Like shit!” and took several enraged strides towards them.

Scott stopped him with a threatening wave of his hand. “Don’t push me, man. You won’t like it.” Two minutes.

Billy reacted with surprise, then he and Buck shared a laugh. “I won’t like it? What are you going to do, wimp me to death?” He headed for them again.

Scott took out his sphere and smiled slightly. He knew he shouldn’t enjoy this, but his anger had taken over and this was going to be extremely satisfying. “Billy, I’m going to teach you a little lesson. It’s what my friend Jessica Suzumoto used to call _bachi_. Kind of like instant karma. What you do to somebody comes right back in your face.” Ninety seconds. He took a deep breath, then reached behind his back for Melany’s hand and caught her by the wrist, harder than he realized in his intensity. He connected with his sphere, to everyone’s amazement. “Like those tires, for instance.” He concentrated on the front left tire of Billy’s pickup, and it exploded. Billy and Buck ducked with panic, and Melany jumped, but Scott was too involved to notice. He looked at the front right tire, and it too blew violently.

Buck was shrieking with terror as Billy scrambled back down the hill to his beloved truck. Imitating Buck’s sequence, Scott blew out the truck’s right headlight, then its left. Sixty seconds. The train’s engine was almost at the summit, and its laboring rumble cast a hellish aura on the scene.

Scott looked at Nokay’s battered car. Melany would never get away from these two in that. The train was nearly there. Forty-five seconds. Scott remembered what Billy had said about listening to the CB. Even though Billy’s truck was going nowhere, he could still use the radio. Scott concentrated on the truck’s electrical system. Blue sparks and shots of electricity began to circle the pickup. Billy wailed, “No, God, not my truck! Don’t blow up my truck!” He dropped face down on the ground to avoid an explosion, but none came. Scott could hear the train’s engine pass behind him. He had less than 30 seconds left. The wave of blue sparks around the pickup ebbed, then ceased. The truck’s electrical system was now completely shorted out, and Scott turned his attention to Billy. The frantic tough was on his belly in the dirt, and Buck was cowering behind some rocks. The sight filled Scott with a strange exhilaration, and he knew he could do anything he wanted to them. What he needed to do was make a point. At Scott’s command the pickup began to glow yellow, then orange, then to red. Billy shrieked, “God, no!” As the truck began to rumble, Scott glanced at the cluster of pine trees behind the truck. The glow flashed off the truck and hit the trees, and the pines burst into flame. “That could have been you, Billy!” Scott shouted over the roar of the train. “It might be you next time!”

As the two bullies stared open-mouthed at the burning trees, Scott spun around towards the train. Keeping his tight grip on Melany’s wrist, he scooped up her backpack with his free hand and made a dash for an open boxcar coming into view. He didn’t notice that she was dragging on his pull, and it wasn’t until after he had helped her into an empty freight car and jumped in after her that he saw the alarm on her face. She moved to the far corner of the car and stared at him. Still flushed with the adrenalin of the confrontation, Scott went to the car’s door and looked back. No one was following them. All he could see was the pale smoke from the burning trees billowing up into the gray sky. He turned and leaned against the wall of the car, sliding down as he caught his breath. He looked at Melany as he gathered himself, and then he began to realize how terrifying that must have been for her. He gestured mildly as the train accelerated into the rolling prairie. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Melany glanced out the freight car’s door. The train was moving fast enough now that jumping out would be dangerous. She was stuck. “Can you make the train stop?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know how it works.” She looked a bit like a trapped animal, and Scott was angry with himself for causing this. He knew how she felt. He had felt the same way when his father first used his sphere in front of him. But he had been able to run away and calm down. She had nowhere to run.

Scott looked away out the car’s other open door and took a last few deep breaths as he calmed down. After a moment, Melany relaxed just a bit and slid down to the floor as far into the corner as she could get. They looked at each other for a few moments, and then Scott realized he was hungry. He opened her backpack and looked in the small bag of groceries to see what looked good. He took out an apple. He indicated the bag. “Want something?” She shook her head. He put the bag on the car’s floor and pushed it out a few feet towards Melany. “Help yourself whenever you want.”

He sat back to eat the apple, and she frowned at him thoughtfully. “I’d like to see that newspaper again.” He took it out of his pocket and slid it across the floor to her. She picked it up and, after a last wary glance at Scott, read the story all the way through.

Scott looked out at the prairie, being quietly lulled by the rocking of the car and the flow of the landscape past him. The adrenalin rush waned and left him wrung-out. The sky was clearing as they moved east, and he was afraid that meant they were in for a cold night. His rain slicker and medium—weight jacket would offer a little warmth. But Melany was wearing a light jacket that wasn’t suited for cross-country travel. He thought about the rest of his gear still packed on his horse, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He had left his hat behind back by the Valiant, too. Buying warmer clothes was out of the question. They had less than 20 dollars between them, and they were going to have to make it last for a thousand miles. That was a daunting prospect, and he tried not to think about it.

When Melany finally spoke, the sound of her voice startled him. “Could you have fixed Nokay’s arm?”

Scott looked at her. Still backed up against the corner, she was peering at him from over the top of the newspaper. But at least her fear seemed to have turned into scrutiny. He shrugged. “I guess.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because he probably would have flipped out the same way you did.”

She frowned. “I did not flip out.”

“You didn’t handle it very well.”

“Do most people?”

He had to admit she had a point. “No.”

She nodded defiantly and looked back at the newspaper story. “It says here that you were in a car crash and the other people were killed but you walked out of the car ‘bathed in an eerie blue light.’ How did you do that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember that.”

“Who were they?”

Scott sighed. “Kent and Eileen Lockhart. They raised me.”

She looked at him questioningly. “What happened to your mom? Is she dead?”

He shook his head. “She had to give me up. There was this federal agent who was looking for us after I was born, and she gave me away so I could have a normal life.”

She contemplated this with sympathy. “How did you save Tim Kilpatrick’s life?”

“I don’t know. I was just talking to him in the hospital, and he started waking up. We couldn’t stick around to find out what happened.”

The sound of his voice was normal and soothing, and she was beginning to relax. She glanced at the article again. She almost smiled. “I read _Conversations with a Starman_ at the library. I can’t believe that’s you.”

“Well, it isn’t me. It’s my dad.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s a good guy.” He thought for a moment. “He’s peaceful. Even when things have been really bad, I’ve never seen him panic.”

“Do you panic?”

He rolled his eyes. “All the time. What do you think that was back there?”

She knew better. “That wasn’t panic,” she said, then her eyes narrowed. “Do you do that often?”

Scott shook his head. “First time.” The more he thought about what he had done, the less he liked it. His father never would have done that. “And I hope the last.”

“What else is your dad like?”

Scott smiled. “He never lets me get away with anything. But even when I do something really stupid, he never makes me feel bad. He doesn’t judge people the way we do. Like, once we were living with some con men and—”

“Con men?” she said with surprise.

“Yeah, you know, con artists. And he didn’t get all righteous around them because they did what they did. He just accepted it and knew that was something he didn’t want to do. It’s really great. I wish I could be like that.”

She knew better about that one, too, but she made no comment. “How long have you been together?”

“Three years.”

“Tell me about it.”

He shook his head. “You don’t want to hear it. It’s a long, boring story.”

“Sure I do.” She went to the grocery bag and rummaged around until she found an apple. Scott noticed that she didn’t go back to her corner but sat down next to the bag. “Go on,” she said.

He shrugged. “All right.”

As the eastern Montana prairie rolled by, he told her the whole story, from calling his father without knowing it to separating after Kurt’s funeral. As he recounted his life, he realized this was the first time he had ever told anyone the whole story. He had mentioned bits and pieces before, but never everything. She was an attentive audience, and when he was finished, he had the strange feeling of something being finally settled. He didn’t know what it could be, but he felt tranquil and at peace.

Melany smiled after he had finished. “It’s funny. When I first met you, I thought we were so different. But we’re not, really. I mean, both of our moms gave us away.” Scott nodded. “For a long time you didn’t know who your father was.” He had never thought about it like that, but she was right. She added quietly, “And your parents aren’t married, either.”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

She looked at him with a growing intensity. “Scott, ... can you undo my operation?”

He looked at her and saw the pain in her eyes. He said quietly, “That’s pretty big. I’m still new at this.” He saw her disappointment, and he added, “I’m sure my dad could.”

She looked at him hopefully. “Really?” He nodded. “... I’d really like ... could you ask him?”

He nodded again. “Sure.” She nodded gratefully, then looked away. Even without his sphere to focus the image, he could see a heavy, gray mass around her, and it began to dispel slightly. The image hurt, and he looked away at the prairie rolling by.

They sat in silence for a while, until she said thoughtfully, “I wish I could be more like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, special.”

“You are special.”

She retreated into a shy smile. “But I mean, like, do things like you can do.”

He pondered this. “You can do a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you remember what you read.”

She scoffed.

“That means you’re smart. Being smart’s important.”

She smiled wistfully. “I’d rather be lucky.”

“I think the importance of luck is overrated.”

She smirked at him. “Didn’t we have this conversation already?”

“See? You have a good memory.” She chuckled. He continued, “And you can tell a satellite from an airplane.” She smiled. “And you’re a great getaway driver.” She blushed, and he smiled. “And you swing a mean two-by-four.”

She laughed. “And I know first aid, so I could put you back together after I clobber you.”

“See?” They laughed together.

She regarded him with appreciation. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

The train rolled on into the twilight. Scott and Melany stopped talking for a while, each of them deep in their own thoughts. Scott suspected the train was heading northeast, as now that it was dark he could see out the right door the first cool glow of the moon spreading out on the horizon. They closed the left door to keep out the chill, but they kept the right door open a bit to let in the light.

It was getting colder, and Melany put on Nokay’s sweater and gloves, which were comically too large for her. Scott put on his rain slicker and sat by the open door, watching the moon finally break free of the horizon. He remembered the story of what had happened during his mother and father’s train trip west, and being alone in this empty freight car with Melany was rather unnerving. Well, no problem. He could handle this. Piece of cake.

Melany came over and looked out at the moon with a smile. “Just past full,” she said.

“Yeah.”

She sat down next to him. “I’ve been thinking. You threw that fire alarm during the dance, didn’t you?” He nodded. She said quietly, “You saw what was happening.” He nodded again. “Why did you do that? I mean, get involved. Isn’t it dangerous for you to do that kind of thing? You might get caught.”

“I guess. But if I’d gone over there, they would have beaten me up. And I try to avoid that whenever possible.”

“But why did you risk that for me?”

Her uncertainty cut Scott in two, and his heart ached as he looked at her. He wanted to put his arms around her, and tell her how much he cared about her and how much he hurt when she hurt. He shivered as he fought the urge to kiss her. No, he didn’t dare do it. He looked at her and said in a hushed voice, “Because you’re my friend.”

She smiled at him, the moonlight reflecting off her bright eyes. For a moment, a current of understanding flowed between them, but she blinked and pulled back inside herself, breaking the mood. “I’m getting cold. Is it okay if we close the door?”

He knew closing the door would help with the wind, but he also knew the car would be pitch black inside if they did. He compromised. “Most of the way.”

They slid the door across so only a thin ribbon of pale light stretched diagonally across the car. He shivered as they sat next to each other in the gloom, but the cold air wasn’t the cause. She said, “I think getting some sleep is a good idea.”

“Okay.”

She scooted away from him and stretched out on the hard floor. After a moment of hesitation, he awkwardly slid over—sort of next to her—and laid down with his back to her.

He laid there for about five minutes, bolt awake and afraid to move. He was contemplating a very long night ahead when she said softly, “Scott?”

“... Yeah?”

“I’m cold.”

“... Me, too.”

She nestled against his back and tucked in as comfortably as she could. Scott wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. He knew he was going to die. True, he was warmer, but he was still going to die. This was complete body contact from his shoulder blades down to his ankles. There was no way he was going to fall asleep, or even survive the night. Dying was imminent.

But Scott did fall asleep, as he was surprised awake when they were discovered by a rail worker during a predawn stop. They were booted off the train, and they tried to get their bearings in the middle of a sleeping farm town somewhere in North Dakota. Scott found a map taped on the window of a small gas station and studied it to get a general idea of where they were and which way they should head. He traced a line along the highways they would want to take east, plugging them into his memory. Then they turned their backs on the sleeping town, and, in the light of the morning moon, they headed in the direction of the new day.

******

Garnet County Sheriff Jim Dale’s courtesy update to Kelly Anderson on Saturday morning set in motion a flurry of phone calls that spread what little news was available to Paul and Jenny and their friends. Scott was still missing, and he was probably with a friend. Sheriff Dale had become worried when the car they were in was found burned out and vandalized in the next county, but the boys who had been arrested for demolishing the car said the two had gotten on the train. The sheriff commented he wasn’t sure how much of what the two boys said could be trusted, as they told lunatic stories about “shooting flames and glowing hands and blowing things up.” The only other hard news Sheriff Dale had to offer Kelly was that he had just heard that two kids matching Scott and Melany’s descriptions had been kicked off a train east of Williston, North Dakota.

When Paul called Abigail Spiellman, she said she had gotten the injunction and all copies of the National Weekly News had been pulled from the shelves. She mentioned, in a subdued afterthought, that the Midnight Press was out with a semi-Out of Focus version of Paul’s life as a front page article. She said the story of the National Weekly News’s blunder would probably be spreading across the national news during the course of the day, so at least some people would get the word that the reward in the News story was bogus. She told him to call her as soon as Scott arrived. “You’ve got to get down here as soon as possible,” Abigail said. “We have to do a lot of heavy-duty damage control. The newspapers may not be on the streets anymore, but the story’s got a lot of people talking and wondering about you. The Midnight Press compared our version of things with their own research, so it isn’t as definitive as I’d wanted. This mess isn’t going to go away unless we face it head-on, and the sooner the better.” Paul finished the call by promising to contact her as soon as possible.

Paul and Jenny contemplated their options carefully. It was fairly obvious that Scott was heading for either Rockland or Madison, and unless he heard the news that he was no longer wanted by the federal government he would stay away from the police no matter how much trouble he got in. But they also knew that Scott was no stranger to life on the run, and if he had made it from Macklen, Montana to western North Dakota in less than 24 hours, he would probably be all right—probably. Unless a crisis developed, they reluctantly agreed, their best plan of action was to wait as patiently as they could. Jenny was weathering this complication reasonably well, and when Paul told her how proud he was of her, she responded with a smile that almost worked.

******

Just as Abigail had predicted, word spread quickly through the national media about the National Weekly News’s bungled scoop and the unconfirmed reports of a young man escaping at least one attempted kidnapping directly related to the tabloid’s story. All of the “legitimate” media’s disdain for their sensationalistic cousins was unleashed without mercy as the publishers of the National Weekly News scrambled to stay one step ahead of destruction with an apologetic, yet self-serving, public statement.

Meanwhile, the Midnight Press was trying to keep as low a profile as possible. Sales of the latest issue were better than ever, but this was not an achievement to trumpet. The Midnight Press had been the tabloid which began the starman reward business in the first place, but it had quietly dropped the notices over the course of the summer while the two reporters gathered the real story. Neither innocent nor guilty, the paper could not capitalize on the free publicity, and it could not shrink into the background, as it was mentioned in virtually every news report as having published an alternative account of the story which was ruining the News. At least the Midnight Press’s managing editor could breathe a sigh of relief that his gamble had paid off.

******

Scott and Melany made little headway on Saturday. Rides were few and far between, and they ended up walking more than hitching. But more ominous to Scott than the lack of progress was the storm he could see building in the north. It would hit in 24 to 36 hours, and they were going to be caught in the middle of it. With luck it would be mostly wind and only a little rain, but the high clouds gave little indication what kind of storm would follow. Melany was quietly cheerful through it all, never complaining and rarely asking to rest.

As an early darkness descended, they found the remains of an abandoned barn and settled in as best they could. Using old hay for bedding, they nestled in under the barn’s partially collapsed roof. They ate from their bag of food sparingly, then, exhausted and hoping it wouldn’t rain in on them, they fell asleep.

******

Before he went home Saturday evening, Sheriff Dale was getting ready to call Kelly Anderson with a no-news update when an intense, determined city fellow came into his office like a man on a mission. “Sheriff Dale?”

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for Scott Hayden.”

“So are a lot of people.”

The man gestured apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m his uncle, Wayne Geffner.” The name meant nothing to Sheriff Dale, and he nodded non-committally. “I came up from Albuquerque as soon as I heard what happened. My sister’s frantic. I promised her I’d help in any way I could. Do you have any idea where he went?”

Sheriff Dale thought the man seemed sincere enough, and he didn’t have that same detached curiosity those two reporters from Great Falls had. He sensed a personal commitment here. “We don’t have any definite information at this time.”

“Scott’s very resourceful,” the man said. “He’s used to being on the road. It’s quite possible he could cover a great distance in a short period of time.”

Sheriff Dale nodded. “We got a positive ID from a railroad worker in North Dakota that Scott Hayden was one of two kids he booted off a train this morning.”

The man smiled slightly with a strange glint in his eye. “He’s heading east?”

“That’s the best guess we’ve got so far.”

The man smiled a bit more intensely. “I think I know where he’s going. Thank you, Sheriff, thank you. If I hear anything, I promise I’ll call.” The man left the office with determination.

Something about this wasn’t sitting right with the sheriff, and he was regretting having spoken about the case to this man without getting some identification. He got up and went to the office’s front door to get the man’s car license number, but he had already driven away into the night.

******

Scott and Melany awoke to a gray Sunday dawn and found their way back out to a highway. Their hitchhiking luck was much better, and they got two long rides that took them to eastern North Dakota by late afternoon. The second ride left them north of Grand Forks, although they had only a rough idea of where they were.

The northerly winds of the storm Scott had seen coming buffeted them as they walked down a gravel road through frozen fields. A few flurries started as the temperature dropped. Their layers of clothing could not keep out the wintry wind, and it was hard to stay warm. But there was nowhere else to go except forward, and they managed to keep moving. But they were forced to stop when their road came to a dead end at the banks of a swift, gray river. The road sloped down to a homemade boat landing, but there was no way across. There was a bridge of some sort to the north, so they headed for it.

When they got to the bridge, they discovered that it wasn’t a car crossing or footbridge, it was a train trestle. It was old and narrow, but it was in good repair. There was no other bridge in sight, and the only other sign of civilization visible for miles was a small cabin on the other side of the river. So, after seeing that there was no train coming in either direction, they stepped onto the planks and walked over the water.

Melany wavered at first as she looked down at the water swirling past under their feet. She stopped and took a deep breath. Scott stopped with her as she gathered her courage, and he gave her an encouraging smile. “I won’t fall off if you won’t.” She smiled and nodded, and they continued on their way out over the water.

Walking across the railroad bridge was harder than Scott had expected. Finding his footing on the ties wasn’t as simple as walking, and the progression of beams beneath his feet and the rush of the water below the planks was making a dizzying pattern in his eyes. He was carrying the backpack, and with the flow of the water under him throwing off his balance its weight seemed to be pulling him backwards. They moved as quickly as they could, which was a lot slower than Scott wanted. It was getting colder by the minute, and the frigid wind was roaring straight down the river and blasting them on the exposed bridge. Always a little off balance, he didn’t dare look up to see how quick their progress was. Looking at the beams and following a steady rhythm was the only way to do it.

They were more than halfway across when Scott heard the low wail in the distance. At first he didn’t want to believe it was what he thought it was, but the knot in the pit of his stomach told him the truth. The train whistle echoed again, and he and Melany stopped. The train came into view ahead of them, and it was making good time. The rumble of the approaching locomotive began moving up from the rails into his legs. They couldn’t run on the bridge, and they wouldn’t make it to the bank in time anyway. He put his hand on his sphere in his pocket, but what could he do? He should have checked the rails with his sphere before they started! He would remember that next time—if he lived to see a next time.

He looked at the water below, and at the bridge’s supports. It was no more than 20 feet to the water, but the idea of jumping in was suicide in this weather. The trestle was narrow enough that even if they got on the outside of the bridge’s steel supports they would still be dangerously blasted by the train’s passing. Melany was looking at him with panic in her eyes. He had to think of something. “Wait.” Most of the train’s blast would go sideways, not down. He got down on his knees, and then he stepped down onto the bridge’s support cross beams on the lee side of the trestle. He signaled for her to follow. She unsteadily put her feet over the edge as he stayed outside of her, and he helped her turn around to get a handhold. He went down another long step, and he helped her move down with him.

The bridge was beginning to shake as the train approached, and Scott barely had time to get down one more level, out of reach of the tracks, and help Melany down between him and the bridge’s supports before the train’s thunder rolled through the bridge. “Hold on!” Scott shouted above the roar. Melany locked her arms around the beam as Scott put his arms around her and got the best grip he could on the beam.

The train wasn’t large, but it hit the bridge with a vengeance. As the engine thundered over their heads, Scott’s cold hands in his worn leather work gloves quickly lost their grip on the smooth beam. Before he could warn Melany not to let go of the bridge, his hands slipped from the shuddering beam and he tumbled backwards into the churning water.

Melany screamed his name, but the sound was lost in the train’s deafening roar. The shock of the cold water paralyzed Scott as he bobbed back up to the surface, but his reflex to grab took over as the swift water slammed him against one of the bridge’s supports. The train’s thunder continued for what seemed an eternity, but then the last car passed overhead and the rumble retreated to the west.

“Scott!” Melany shouted. He looked up at her, but his voice didn’t work. He managed to move his arm slightly at her. The backpack had quickly filled with the icy water and it was pulling him down. “Scott!” she called. “Let go of the pack! Take it off!” Through instinct rather than conscious thought, Scott slipped the pack’s straps from his shoulders, and the swift river quickly carried the backpack away. Melany pointed at the bank 100 feet away. “Go! I’ll meet you on shore!” She scrambled up onto the rails and dashed for the eastern bank. Scott numbly followed her, pulling himself from support to support as best he could against the water’s urgent flow. Eventually the river bottom came up against his feet, and he tried to push his way along faster. He looked ahead on the bank, and Melany was there, signaling him on. The river was shallow enough that he was able to muster a torpid crawl towards her. When he was within reach, she grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him out onto the land. He rolled over onto his back, shaking and trying to catch his breath. She knelt over him. “Scott!” He looked at her, but no words came out when he moved his mouth. “Your sphere! Can you use your sphere?” He couldn’t make his hands stop shaking, so she found the sphere in his pocket and held it up before him. “Come on, Scott! Do something!” She shook him by the shoulder and waved the sphere before his face, but he could no longer see her. His eyes were glazing over, and his lips were going from white to blue. She sagged as she saw all too clearly what her first aid training was telling her: He had maybe 30 minutes to live.

She took a moment to gather herself, then she put his sphere in her pocket. “All right, come on, on your feet!” She dragged him to his feet, then slung his arm over her shoulders. “Now walk!” She shook him roughly to get his attention, and his feet began to move unsteadily. She eyed the cabin above the river and half-pulled, half-dragged Scott towards it. “Come on, Scott, stay with me. We’re going to that cabin. Keep moving, come on ...”

During a 20-minute eternity, Melany kept Scott moving towards the cabin with pushing, pulling, and a stream of banter to keep both of them going. She didn’t dare look at him, because she knew time was slipping away with every step they took. Instead, she examined the cabin as they approached, noting a small supply of firewood next to the house and where the chimney was.

When she got him to the modest cabin’s door, she found it was locked. But a nine-paned window in the door was all the key she needed. She shattered the pane closest to the doorknob with a rock and reached in to unlock the door from the inside. She cut the back of her hand as she pulled her hand out, but in her fierce determination she barely noticed.

She pulled Scott inside and laid him down in front of the fireplace, then went to work. She found enough tinder and kindling to start a fire, and as the fire grew she dashed through the small cabin for the rest of what she needed. Keeping her banter going, she said, “Scott, I’m going to get a bunch of blankets now, and we’ve got a fire, and I’m going to use the blankets, and we’re going to get you warmed up as fast as possible.” She sent up a prayer of thanks as she found a closet full of blankets and bedding, and, after wrapping a rag around her bleeding hand, she tossed the bed clothing in front of the fireplace. She took off her jacket and stuffed it into the broken windowpane in the door, then she stoked the fire into a roaring blaze.

After laying out the bedding into a makeshift bed next to the fireplace, she steeled herself and looked at Scott. She shuddered. He was unconscious and barely breathing. She only knew he was alive by his quiet shivering. He would be gone in a few minutes. She pushed her alarm away. “Okay, come on.” She started peeling off his half-frozen clothes, tossing them wherever they landed. “Now, Scott,” she said as she worked as quickly as she could, “I gotta warm you up as fast as I can, and I’m going to do what the book says to do, so I don’t want you to think I’m trying anything funny.” She got him down to his briefs, then rolled him into the makeshift bed next to the roaring fire. Then she stripped down to her underwear and slipped under the blankets next to him. Turning him to face the fire, she wrapped her arms around him from behind. She shuddered when she realized how cold he was, and a terrible fear swept through her that she was too late. As she pressed her body’s warmth against him, her courage gave out and she started to cry.

Held secure between the two heat sources, Scott’s body continued to tremble for a while. Then, slowly, quietly, the shaking ceased. His taut muscles unwound, his color came back, and his shallow breathing became deeper. The fight was over; the crisis had passed. From unconsciousness, he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Melany held on to him for a long time, perhaps longer than necessary. She didn’t want to take any chances with his recovery. Besides, she had wanted to hold him for so long. This might be her only opportunity. There were so many things she wanted to tell him, so many things she wanted him to know. But what was the use? He couldn’t hear her now, and when he could hear her she was never brave enough to tell him. She knew he was sound asleep, so she kissed him on the back of the shoulder. Grateful that he didn’t react, she nestled contentedly against his back. How strange that one of the worst experiences of her life should lead to one of the best. She shifted up slightly and looked at him as he slept. The fire’s glow reflected The fire’s glow reflected on his face, and he looked so tranquil, so handsome. He didn’t look like some alien creature at all. She figured only she could fall for someone who had even more problems than she did. She regarded his face and smiled. If only she could hold this moment in time. She nestled against him again. She knew she had to get up, but she didn’t want to. Her cut hand was beginning to throb, and she needed to wash the wound. It was getting dark, and there were things she had to do while she could still see. But she didn’t want to let go of this moment. She wondered if he would remember any of this later. If he didn’t, it would be just as well. But what if he did? She would explain that she did what she had to. He would probably understand. He was a polite, decent person. But what if he didn’t understand? Then her heart would break. She didn’t want to think about that.

She got up and dressed. She brought in firewood from outside and stoked the fire. She flipped several light switches, but the power seemed to be turned off somewhere. She wouldn’t know how to turn it on even if she found where it was turned off, so she found some candles and put them within reach of the bed. Evening was coming on fast, and she was getting hungry. She remembered her backpack and what was left of their bag of groceries lost in the river. She searched through the cabin’s cupboards, but she didn’t find much more than a few cans of soup. She found a few plates and utensils, but there didn’t even seem to be a can opener. She tried to wash her hand in the sink, but there was no water; it was turned off, too. However, there was toilet paper in the bathroom, so even if they couldn’t flush, they could still take care of that necessity. In her search, she came across a book of Minnesota fishing regulations, and she wondered if they had crossed the state line.

She discovered a small emergency sewing kit, and as darkness descended on the cabin she sat in the fire’s glow and sewed back on several buttons that had popped off Scott’s shirt when she hastily undressed him. She put chairs at the side of the fireplace and draped Scott’s wet clothes across them. She took his sphere from her pocket and, after regarding it fondly, put it back into his jeans pocket. She eyed his boots with a frown. They were in pretty bad shape after their soaking, but she put them near the fire and hoped for the best. She looked around one last time to see if she had forgotten something. There was nothing left that she could do, so, too tired to notice how hungry she was, she got back into the makeshift bed and went straight to sleep.

******

Melany woke up as the first light of a gray dawn appeared through the windows. She got out of bed, being careful to move slowly and not wake up Scott, and she started the fire up again. As the flames grew, she looked at him. He was still asleep, sprawled out comfortably next to the fireplace. He loosed a contented sleeper’s sigh, and she couldn’t help but smile. She checked his clothes. They were mostly dry, but they felt clammy from the cold. Getting the fire going again would take care of that. She lit a candle and went off to search the shelves one more time to see if she had missed some food somewhere.

Scott shifted slowly as he began to wake up. He was having a wonderful, romantic, sensual dream about Melany that clung to him as he drifted up towards consciousness. He didn’t want to let the dream go, but his body insisted on waking up. He stretched sleepily, and, to his surprise, he hurt all over. In the void between sleeping and waking, he couldn’t figure out why he felt as if he had been tossed off a horse again. Well, there was liniment in the Sullivans’ medicine cabinet, and he would take a hot shower before going out with Nokay and Bud. Then, as his senses checked in one by one, he could smell the sweet aroma of a log fire. Strange, he thought, why would Flo have a fire going so early in the morning? Then his hearing connected, and he could hear the snap of the burning logs next to him. He blinked awake. He looked at the fire, then around at the strange room. He had no idea where he was, and as he shifted to get up he discovered to his dismay that he was mostly naked. Oh, no. Why couldn’t he remember any of this? He saw his shirt draped across a chair next to him, and he pulled it towards him stiffly and started to put it on. He muttered to himself: Come on, Scott, think—what happened? As he buttoned his shirt, he glanced around the room, looking for something familiar. His eyes came to rest on the impromptu bed he was in, and the obvious indentation next to him. His heart sank as his mind raced. That dream he’d just had about Melany really was just a dream, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? Oh, God, what had he done, and why couldn’t he remember it?

Melany appeared in the room, and she smiled shyly when she saw him. He froze as he finished with the shirt’s last button, then wrapped the blankets tightly around his waist. “Hi,” she said softly.

He stammered, “... Hi.”

“How do you feel this morning?” she asked. He didn’t know how to answer that. She smiled and went to the fireplace. “Kind of sore, I bet.”

He shrugged, afraid to think. “Kind of.”

“That’s pretty normal.”

His mind reeled. Oh, God, no! This couldn’t have happened like this, no, it wasn’t real. Melany didn’t notice Scott’s crisis, as she was checking his clothes again. He was afraid to ask, but he had to know. “... Melany,” he said unsteadily, “... what happened?”

She saw the worry in his eyes and sat down on the edge of the makeshift bed. “You don’t remember?”

He didn’t want to admit it, but he had to. “Not really.”

“We were crossing a river on the train trestle, and a train came, and you fell in the water.”

Scott’s mind finally shifted into gear. Yes, he remembered that. That terrible feeling of falling, and then slamming into the icy water. It had been so cold, he couldn’t breathe. How had he gotten out of that? “Did you jump in and pull me out?”

She shook her head. “I’m not that stupid. You kind of swam over to the land, and I hauled you out.” She eyed him. “Do you remember any of that?”

He didn’t so much remember it as he felt it again. He looked around at the cabin. “Where are we? How did we get here?”

“Somebody’s fishing cabin, I guess. We’re not too far from the bridge.”

“How come I don’t remember this?”

She shrugged, hiding behind a casual air. “You were kind of turning into a Popsicle.”

He shuddered. “... I was going to die, wasn’t I?”

She was trying to keep up her usual detached front with him, but the sincerity in his voice was unnerving her. “Well, if it had gone on farther, ... yeah.”

He blinked as the realization sank in. “You saved my life, didn’t you?”

She tried a nonchalant shrug. “... Well, maybe.”

He gazed at her with admiration, and all of the arguments, all of the obstacles vanished. Had he totally underestimated her all along, or had everything just changed?

She frowned at him. “What’s the matter?”

“What?”

“You’re staring.”

He smiled. “I just realized how lucky I am.”

She shrugged, unsure what his comment meant but not daring to reveal her true self to him. “Well, yeah, if you’d been out there by yourself, you would’ve bought it.”

He smiled again. “That’s not what I meant.”

He leaned forward and kissed her, and after a moment she pulled back and looked at him in bewilderment. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Is it because you’re grateful or something?” Her confusion sounded like anger.

“Well, yeah, but, I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

She blinked in astonishment. “You have?”

“Yeah.”

She contemplated this amazing turn of events for a moment. She eyed him, and it began to sink in. “You mean ... you like me.”

“Yeah.”

She couldn’t believe it. “I thought you said I was just a friend!”

He shrugged. “You are my friend. But I like you more than that, too.”

She regarded him for another moment, then shook her head. “I don’t believe this! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to get ... involved and then have to disappear. That’s hard.” She nodded, and Scott suddenly feared her intense reaction was really disapproval. “Look, I’m sorry if that’s a problem. I just ...”

Melany’s smile put an end to his fears. “That’s not a problem,” she said softly. She took his hand, then hesitantly kissed him. For so long Scott had wanted this and yet he had fought it off, and this moment was all the sweeter after his ordeal.

But he couldn’t completely savor the moment, as he was ill at ease. There were delicate questions he needed answered. “What did you mean when you said that me being sore all over was normal?”

“It’s from shivering,” she said. “I read somewhere that shivering hard like that is real hard on your muscles.”

“Oh. ... So I was asleep the whole time?”

She knew what he was trying to say and she couldn’t stop a smile. “Yeah.”

Scott knew all along that his dream had been just a dream, but he relaxed at her answer. He frowned. “... And you, I mean, you undressed me, right?”

She tried unsuccessfully not to chuckle. “Yeah.” He grimaced at that. She shook her head, then said with a shy playfulness, “I didn’t look.” Scott hoped he wasn’t blushing. A mischievous smile bubbled over as she couldn’t resist. “Besides, you were pretty cold. There wouldn’t have been much to look at anyway.” She laughed and turned to roll out of reach as he flung a pillow at her. She held up her injured hand to block the pillow, and he saw her bandage for the first time. He took her hand with concern. “What did you do?”

She gestured towards the cabin’s front door. “I cut it unlocking the door.”

He looked at the broken window pane and shuddered when he realized what happened. He started to unwrap the bandage, but the cloth had become stuck to the scab and it would not pull free. She flinched with pain, and he flinched with her. From what they could see the jagged wound was mending, but the cloth needed to be peeled as soon as possible, even though that would reopen the gash and hurt tremendously. No matter what, a nasty scar was inevitable. He took his sphere from his jeans pocket and connected with it. He concentrated on the wound. Her hand glowed with a pale blue light, and the gash sizzled with a cool warmth. The blood vessels reconnected, the ripped flesh became one again. The blood-stained cloth slipped from her hand, and there was no trace left of the injury. Still not used to this, Scott smiled at what he had done. Melany admired her hand, then smiled at him. She gave him another tentative kiss.

The thought occurred to each of them at the same time. She pulled back and looked at him with large eyes. “... Can you undo my operation now?”

Scott was not surprised by her question, and neither was he surprised when he felt that mysterious confidence growing inside again. This time he did not mistrust it. He whispered, “Yeah, I can.”

She began to tremble. “What ... what do you want me to do?” She sat back awkwardly, suddenly afraid. Her hands shook as she reached for the top button of her shirt.

Scott shook his head. “No. ... Just lie down.”

She stiffly stretched out on the makeshift bed, then clenched her eyes shut. He had no conscious idea what he was doing as he held out his sphere, but somehow he knew what to do from each moment to the next. He connected with his sphere and looked at her. She was so afraid, but she was strong enough to go through this. He admired her all the more.

He thought he needed to touch her somehow to do this, but as he held his hand over her navel he realized he didn’t. He could do this with thought alone. The prospect was staggering. Using his mind, he went into her abdomen and found the first incision. Without knowing how he did it, he untied the knot, rejoined the severed fallopian tube, and made the stretched passageway taut again. He went to the other side. Here the knot was sloppy and uneven. He could see scar tissue spreading around the wound, and there seemed to be an infection growing. She would have paid for this piece of slipshod surgery for the rest of her life. He undid the incision as he had on the other side, and he mentally cleared away the scar tissue and decaying flesh. As he finished, the thought floated through his mind to heal her surface incision marks, and in his mind he saw them vanish.

Not entirely sure what he had done, he disconnected from his sphere and looked at her. After a moment, she opened her eyes hesitantly, then looked at him, surprised it was over. Without saying a word, she got up and left the room, pulling her shirttail out as she went. Uncertainty came over Scott, and he put his sphere back in his jeans pocket as he waited.

Melany reappeared abruptly around the corner, tears in her eyes. She flung herself on the makeshift bed and hugged the startled Scott. “Even the scars are gone.” He put his arms around her as she came to grips with the miracle she had prayed for.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I’m not really sure it worked. You have to have a doctor look it over.”

She smiled up at him brightly. “I know it worked.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Was it ... was it really weird doing that?”

He thought for a moment, then laughed out loud. He gathered himself into a straight face. “I didn’t look.”

She laughed and hit him on the arm as he laughed. She appreciated him for a moment, then kissed him again. Soon they were wrapped in each other arms. She smiled with a gentle playfulness. “Maybe asking you to do that wasn’t such a good idea. Now I’m going to think about being responsible.” He knew what she meant. He had thought of that, too. He also saw an extra spark in her eyes when she said quietly, “Someday.” She kissed him again, and it seemed to him her kiss said “Maybe someday soon.” He melted into her tender embrace, but his empty stomach broke the mood with the growled message of “But not today.” She giggled at the cavernous rumbling, and he laughed embarrassedly with her. She sat up and looked at the kitchen. “I looked for food, but all I found was a couple cans of soup. And there’s no can opener and no electricity to cook it.”

Scott produced his sphere and his Swiss Army knife. “Can opener,” he said, holding up the knife, “and electricity,” he said, holding up the sphere.

Their breakfast consisted of an undiluted can of soup that Scott heated up using his sphere. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to take the edge off their hunger. Scott also used his sphere to fix the broken window pane in the door and clean the used bed linens, and Melany left a note to the cabin’s owners explaining their emergency and promising to send money for the soup and the used firewood. After a last check to make sure everything was in order, they left.

They had to walk down a back road for several miles on their way east, but somehow holding hands made the going much easier than it had been before. When they found a highway, they thumbed a ride with an elderly farm couple going shopping in town.

When they were dropped off in the small town, Melany told Scott to lie low while she bought some food. She found a small mom-and-pop store and collected food for the road. As she waited behind another customer at the checkout, something odd caught her eye. It was an empty tabloid rack with a piece of paper taped on the front. Handwritten across the top of the paper was, “Why your paper’s missing this week,” and below was a newspaper clipping. Melany read the article out of curiosity, then stared with disbelief. The wire service story printed in the local paper was about the National Weekly Press’s faux pas and explained all the details of the case.

“Are you ready?” asked the man at the checkout, who was the pop of the mom-and-pop organization.

“Is this for real?” Melany asked, pointing at the clipping.

“You bet,” he said. “We got a call Friday afternoon to take all the copies off the rack. They took them back Saturday.”

Melany dropped her groceries on counter and said, “I’ll be right back.” She found Scott outside and pulled him into the store. She was too excited to explain, but she stopped him in front of the article and said, “Read.”

Scott read the article, not believing his eyes. The man at the register watched this with some interest, as it was a slow morning and there was no one else in the store. Scott looked at him, pointing at the clipping. “I don’t understand this. It says the warrant for Scott Hayden was canceled by the FSA. What does that mean?”

The man was looking at Scott, trying to figure out where he had seen him before. “I guess it means they don’t want to arrest him anymore.”

Scott stared at him. “What? That’s impossible.”

The man shook his head. “That’s what the article said.”

Scott looked at Melany. “It’s got to be a trick.”

Melany said, “I think you better call the Sullivans.”

“Can I please borrow your phone?” Scot asked the man. “I’ll call collect.”

The man suddenly recognized Scott. “You’re the kid from the story!” He laughed. “I don’t believe it!” He put the phone on the counter in front of Scott. “Call wherever you want! This is great!”

Scott called collect to the Sullivans, and Bud accepted the charges. “Scott!” Bud shouted. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Is Melany with you?”

“Yeah, she’s fine, too. Bud, what’s going on?”

“I talked with Evan. He explained about you being wanted by the FSA. He said they canceled the warrant last week.”

Scott laughed. “They really did?”

“That’s what he said. And we saw that paper, too. That was some cockeyed article about you. No wonder you took off like that.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I should have called you.”

“That’s okay. Look, your parents called on Friday, and they want you to call them right away.”

Scott blinked. “My what?”

“Your parents.”

“... You mean my dad.”

“Your mom, too. Let me give you their number.”

It took a moment for Scott to understand what Bud had said. He snapped out of it as Bud gave him the phone number, and Scott wrote it down on a scratch pad the man in the store offered him. Bud explained that Flo had found Scott’s cash under his bed, and she had packed all of his things up. When he was settled, Bud said, he should tell them where he was and they would send everything. Scott asked Bud to wire him his money right away, then found out from the store clerk the town’s name and the name of the Western Union outlet. Bud ended the call with a promise to leave for Macklen with the money immediately.

With trembling hands, Scott dialed the number Bud had given him. The line clicked after the first ring, and Paul answered. “Hello?”

“Dad!”

“Scott! Where are you?”

“Caspar Falls, Minnesota.”

“Where is that?”

“I don’t know.” Scott almost choked on his words: “... Is Mom there?”

“No, Scott, she went into town. I’m sorry.”

Scott deflated with disappointment. “But she’s with you?”

“Yes.”

“And everything’s okay?”

“We’re fine, but everything isn’t okay.”

“But I thought the FSA doesn’t want us anymore.”

“They don’t, but ... it’s complicated.” Scott heard Paul search for something. “Your mother gave me a list of instructions for you. Are you within 100 miles of Superior, Wisconsin?”

Scott looked at the man, who was beaming with delight at having such a celebrity in his store. “Is Superior, Wisconsin more than 100 miles away?”

The man nodded. “It’s more like 300.”

Scott said to his father, “No.”

Paul asked him, “Are you in a town with an airport?”

Scott asked the man, and when the man replied that the nearest commercial airport was more than 50 miles away Scott relayed the news. Paul asked Scott if the town had bus service, and Scott found out from the clerk that a bus to Duluth would come through town at 10 a.m. When Paul found out from Scott that he had enough money for a bus ticket, he told Scott to take the bus to Superior and call them when he got in so they could pick him up. Scott dutifully wrote down his instructions. Paul ended the phone call by saying, “Scott, it’s not over yet. Be careful. And call us as soon as you get in.”

When Scott hung up the phone, he saw that the clerk had a copy of the National Weekly News in one hand and a pen in the other. “Am I glad I saved an issue as a souvenir. Can I get your autograph? I’ve never met anyone famous before. I shook hands with the governor once, but this is better than that.”

Scott frowned at the tabloid as he took the piece of paper with his instructions off the note pad. “I don’t know.”

The man’s childlike enthusiasm bubbled over. “Please? I was thinking I’d frame it and put it right up there on the wall.”

Scott shrugged, not at ease with being an instant celebrity. “Okay.”

Scott took the pen and started to write under the clerk’s watchful eye. “You’re not really an alien, are you?” the man said. Scott glanced up at him and saw that he wasn’t entirely joking.

“I lived in California for a while,” Scott said as he wrote. “Does that count?”

The man laughed heartily at that, and he called his wife in from their house in back. After explaining to her who Scott and Melany were, he told her to offer them the use of their place for showers and breakfast.

After his first hot shower and good meal in three days, Scott decided he could handle the perks of fame. The wife listened attentively to Melany’s retelling of their ordeal, and she even gave the two a ride down to the town’s small hotel. Not only was the hotel the local telegraph outlet, its lobby served as the town’s bus depot.

Scott checked the posted bus schedule, but before he bought his ticket, he took Melany outside for a conference. “Do you want to go back home?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “No. I have nothing to go back to.”

Scott said slowly, “Then I’d like you to go to Madison and stay with my grandparents. There’s a bus leaving for St. Paul at three. You can get to Madison from there.”

She frowned. “But that’s not where you’re going, is it?”

“No. Look, Melany, this isn’t over yet. Anything could happen. Fox has pulled tricks before. This warrant thing could be another one. ... Besides, I haven’t seen my mom in a long time. I ...”

She signaled for him to stop and smiled wistfully. “I understand.”

He nodded with appreciation. “When you get there, I want you to have my grandmother call Gran and let her know where you are. Promise?”

She nodded. “Not that she’ll care.”

He said firmly, “I care.”

She smiled at him, then sighed with a touch of sadness. “Will I see you again this time?”

Scott smiled. “Yes.” He laughed. “Sometimes it takes a while, but we starmen always come back.”

After Scott received his money wired from Bud, he paid for his ticket to Superior and Melany’s ticket to Madison, then as they waited for his bus he gave her Mary and Hank’s phone number and instructions on how to introduce herself with “orange blossoms.” His bus arrived, and, after a tender farewell, she waved goodbye as the coach took him away.

******

Word of Scott’s arrival in Caspar Falls traveled fast, and even while Scott was still at the bus stop people were dropping in at the convenience store to hear what happened and see the clerk’s treasured autographed souvenir. The news was even called in to several local radio stations and broadcast throughout the area.

About four that afternoon, another visitor who heard the news on the radio stopped by the store, but his interest was hardly casual. When, at his request, the clerk told him everything that happened, he became fascinated with the telephone note pad. He offered the surprised clerk $50 for it, and the clerk gladly made the sale. The man borrowed a pencil and lightly shaded the depressions in the top sheet, revealing a phone number and instructions. With a rapacious smile, the man thanked the clerk and left. He went to the depot to get a schedule of the bus’s stops on the way to Duluth, and from the lobby’s pay phone he called the Area Code 715 cross reference service for the address of the number on the note pad. With a smile of satisfaction, he left and drove east.

******

Jenny got back to the cabin as an early-season wintry squall was blowing in off Lake Superior. Paul told her about Scott’s call, and she was excited but frustrated that she had missed it. She called the depot in Superior to find out when the bus was due in, and she was unhappy to learn that there was a 45-minute layover in Duluth before the bus left for Superior. She realized now that they should have just met the bus in Duluth. She berated herself for not thinking of that earlier, and she wondered if they could meet him in Duluth instead of waiting. Paul reassured her that they could.

Too full of nervous energy to sit, Jenny busied herself with cleaning the spotless cabin. Heavy lake-effect snow was beginning to pour down from the storm’s billowing clouds, and Jenny worried aloud that the bus might be delayed by the storm. She looked out the window at the half-mile long drive out to the county road. She explained to Paul that she had no way to plow the expanse. A neighbor always cleared the road for Kathy when she was up during the winter, but he plowed only after the snow had stopped. Jenny said if she couldn’t get out with her little four-wheel drive wagon, she didn’t get out until the weather cleared.

Jenny realized how skittish she was, but she couldn’t help it. She apologized to Paul a few times, but he didn’t care. He knew the best way to help her was to stay calm and let her handle this in her own way. Her reunion with Scott was a long time in coming, and there had been some heartbreaking setbacks along the way. He knew quite well that the human instinct to care about others sometimes overflows into meddling, and he wasn’t interested in adopting that trait. But when she could no longer sit still and she started pacing in front of the window, looking at the snow piling up in the drive, he suggested they leave early for the bus depot. She closed up the Franklin stove and they went outside.

However, once they stepped outside, Jenny was dismayed to discover that nearly a foot of snow had accumulated, and her little car didn’t have high enough clearance to get out of the drive. After a few moments to gather herself, Jenny went back into the house with Paul and called the neighbor who plowed the drive. There was no answer. She called another friend who had a big 4x4. The man’s wife answered and told Jenny he was out running an errand for another snowbound friend. Jenny explained the situation to her, and she told Jenny that she didn’t expect her husband back home until just about the time the bus was due to arrive in Superior. With no other viable options left, Jenny worked out with the woman that when Scott called from Superior for his ride the husband would pick Scott up at the bus depot in the 4x4 and drop him off at Jenny’s cabin.

After she hung up, Jenny sat in disappointed bemusement. “Can you do something about the snow?”

“All of it?” he asked.

“No, just clear a path for my car.”

He frowned. “I could, but it would leave a trail leading back to this house and you. I can’t do anything suspicious now. Abigail said people are asking questions about me. I have to be very careful.”

She nodded sadly, then sighed. It was yet another delay. Every time Scott seemed to be within reach, something came up to block the way. “It’s a plot. The closer he gets, the further away he is.”

Paul frowned. He had never encountered that kind of reverse-physics before, anywhere. He tried to reassure her with, “If he keeps moving, eventually he’ll get here.”

She smiled, then laughed.

Paul smiled at her. “That’s the way he’ll want to see you.”

She put her arms around him. “I don’t care what he sees, just so long as it’s me.” They kissed, then they opened up the fire again and settled down to wait for Scott’s call.

******

During a 10-minute rest stop on the trip to Duluth, the bus driver noticed that all the passengers got off the bus except for a fidgeting teenage boy. When he approached the young man, he asked him why he wasn’t out stretching his legs. The teenager responded with a polite nervous energy that he wanted to get going as soon as possible. The driver smiled and reminded him that this was the only place to get food before they arrived in Duluth in another three hours—and he reassured him that willing the bus to move faster didn’t usually work. The boy thought this over for a moment, then shrugged and got out, heading for the snack lounge.

Five minutes later, when the driver called the passengers back to leave, he noticed that the teenager didn’t show up. As the last of the passengers filed back to their seats, the driver wondered what had happened. He saw the teenager’s rain slicker was still on the seat where he had left it. The driver announced the departure one more time, but again the boy didn’t show. He went to the depot manager and asked her if she had seen the boy, but the manager hadn’t noticed. There was something troubling about this, and the driver gave the manager the boy’s description and asked her to keep an eye out for him and call the police if necessary. She promised she would, and the driver went back to his bus. He drove out of the small town slowly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the kid in his rear view mirror. But there was no sign of him, and the driver shrugged and decided the kid had hitched a ride that would get him to Duluth faster.

******

Darkness was gathering early as the snow continued to fall, but eventually Jenny stopped checking her watch every three minutes. She called the Duluth bus depot and found out some buses were running about 15 minutes to half an hour late because of the weather. She took this as well as she could and decided it was time to begin dinner. She started soup, and Paul helped by washing and chopping vegetables.

They both heard the muffled footfalls outside the house at the same time. They looked out the kitchen window, which overlooked the small lake in back of the house, but the footfalls were nearing the front door. Jenny looked at Paul with hope-against-hope anticipation. “Could it be Scott?” A chill went through Paul. Something was wrong. As the footfalls stopped in front of the cabin, Jenny stepped towards the door, but Paul took her arm and held her back.

There was a hesitant knock on the door, and again Paul wouldn’t let Jenny go. He whispered, “Ask who it is.”

“Who is it?” Jenny called out, trying not to shake.

The lackluster reply was, “It’s Scott.” Paul recognized Scott’s voice, but something wasn’t right.

Jenny couldn’t be held back at this. She hurried to the door and threw it open. Standing before the doorway in the nearly foot-deep drift of snow was a shivering Scott wearing a jacket too light for the wintry weather. Jenny wanted to reach out and embrace him, but she couldn’t move. There was something terribly wrong here. Scott was the picture of dread, his large, dark eyes silently pleading for forgiveness from his mother. She shuddered. “... Scott, what’s the matter?”

Jenny gasped as a .38 caliber pistol appeared beside Scott’s head, and Scott closed his eyes as the barrel came to rest just above his ear. In a flash George Fox emerged from beside the door and stood behind Scott, still pressing the gun against Scott’s head and resting his other hand triumphantly on Scott’s shoulder. He smiled at Jenny and nodded. “Mrs. Hayden.” He looked over her shoulder and saw Paul standing in the kitchen doorway. “May we come in?”

Jenny stepped aside as George nudged Scott in through the door. He closed the door quickly, then held out his free hand to Paul. “Your sphere.” Paul gave George his sphere, and with a sharp gesture of triumph George pocketed it. He pulled the gun away from Scott’s head and Scott stepped away, not looking at his parents. George smiled at the family. This was finally it. He had all of them at last, and they were helpless. He almost couldn’t believe it was over.

Jenny was trying not to tremble as she faced George. “Mr. Fox, you can’t do this.”

He smiled, willing to play along with her as long as it was amusing. “Why not?”

“The warrants have been canceled.”

“I tried to tell him—” Scott said, then turned away again.

George smiled. “It was a clever trick. I think most people would have fallen for it.”

“But it’s true!” Jenny said. “Call the FSA.”

He shook his head, really enjoying himself. “Not this late in the day.”

“Then call the Rockland County Sheriff’s office,” she said.

George scoffed. “Their friend, Evan Pierce?”

“But it’s true,” she said. “You don’t have the right to take them.”

He gestured with his gun. “This is all the right I need. Get your coats.”

Jenny held her ground. “We’re not leaving until he warms up,” she said, indicating Scott.

George eyed her, remembering how stubborn she could be under that deceptively fragile-looking exterior. His FSA psychology instructor had nicknamed her personality type “The Lion inside the Rabbit.” Give them a challenge, they rise to it; the way to disarm them is not to give them something to push against. He backed off. “All right. It’ll give you a chance to pack a few things.”

Jenny turned her back on George and went to her son. She led Scott over to in front of the Franklin stove and started unbuttoning his soggy jacket. “Mom,” he stammered, not daring to look at her, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to—”

She held his jacket collar firmly and made him look at her. “Scott, it’s okay.” They gazed at each other, and everything else began to melt away. She put her hand on his cheek and smiled tenderly. “You are so handsome.” Scott was having trouble holding back all the emotions he had kept locked away for so long, and his eyes began to well. She nodded gently, then turned back towards George with a frown. “I’d like to be alone with my son, if you don’t mind.”

George was nonplused for a moment. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said sarcastically, “would you like me to leave? Maybe I should come back tomorrow.”

She glowered at him. “We can’t have a moment of privacy?”

Paul looked at George. “Don’t you want to watch me pack?”

George turned the gun on Paul. “You’re not packing anything.”

“I have to put the soup away,” Paul said evenly, indicating the kitchen behind him. “You can see them through the doorway.”

George looked at the family. He could feel the manipulation beginning. He was sorry now he had gone along with them at all. This would be the last compromise. “Let’s go,” he said, backing into the kitchen and signaling with his gun for Paul to come with him. Paul obeyed and began, at a slow, deliberate pace, to clean up the kitchen and put away what would have been their dinner.

Jenny sat Scott on the floor before the Franklin stove and started to pull off his wet boots. She smiled. “You always loved playing in the snow. You’d be covered from head to toe, and I used to have to pull you in because you didn’t want to come inside ...” She looked up at him and saw he was struggling to keep back tears. She looked at Scott sadly, and he glanced over her shoulder at George. She smiled. She knew he didn’t want George to see him cry. She gestured gently. “Let’s switch.” They traded places and Scott sat down with his back to George.

George reacted with alarm at that. “Why did you move?”

Jenny glared at him. “Because it’s warmer towards the middle of the room,” she said, indicating the direction in which Scott was now sitting.

It seemed logical to George, and he shrugged and concentrated on Paul.

Trading places broke Scott’s mood for a moment and he was able to gather himself again. Jenny moved his boots closer to the stove and Scott shifted his feet towards the flames. Jenny smiled. “Can I rub your feet? You always used to like that.” He nodded, and she took his feet in her lap. “You want to take off the damp socks and put them on top of the stove?”

He shook his head. “No, that’s okay,” he said quietly.

She nodded and she started massaging his foot. She smiled slightly. “You sure have big feet for a three-year-old.” He smiled a bit. She shook her head. “I guess this means I’m not 25 anymore.”

He looked at his mother for a moment, then he looked away at the flames. He wondered how George Fox could have found him out in the middle of nowhere like that. He wondered how he could have let this happen. Why did he have to get off that bus in that town? Why did he have to go outside to look for a newspaper? Fox wouldn’t have been able to grab him in a public area like the depot. He berated himself for thinking this would ever be over.

Scott rummaged through his anger and self-doubts for a while, but the fire’s insistent warmth penetrated his outer and inner layers of cold, and Jenny’s gentle kneading soothed his troubled spirit. If only he could go back to being that three-year-old again and they could start over. The emotions of another long-forgotten tender moment like this roused inside him, and this time he couldn’t stop the tears.

Jenny smiled at him sadly. “Scott, it’s going to be okay. They canceled the warrants. They don’t want you two anymore.”

Scott said wearily, “Mom, that doesn’t mean they don’t want us. If Fox gets us to the FSA, that’s it. We’re dead.”

Jenny didn’t want to admit to herself that Scott was right, but she knew he was. They would simply disappear, and all the lawyers in the world wouldn’t be able to free them.

The two recoiled as George suddenly appeared above them. “Time to go.” Scott looked away to hide his red eyes. George noticed, but he didn’t care about this kid’s emotional problems. He pulled Jenny to her feet as Scott got up and put his soggy jacket on.

While George concentrated on Scott, Jenny turned and looked at Paul. He had on his jacket and was standing silently by the kitchen door. She tried to interpret the sadness in his eyes. Was he going to try an escape? Was he giving up? Would he have been able to defend himself if she and Scott hadn’t been there? She looked back at Scott, who was pulling on his second boot. George stood over him, clutching his gun. Was there any way to overpower George without being hurt? George was wound very tight and always on his guard. She knew he wouldn’t let himself be fooled. The situation seemed hopeless.

Scott finished adjusting his pants leg over his boot and looked at his father for some sort of sign. George smiled and gripped his gun a little tighter. “If you’re going to try something, you might as well do it now and get it over with.”

Scott scowled at him, his thwarted grief turning into anger. “So what are we supposed to do now, walk to the nearest FSA office?”

George frowned. “We’ll walk to my car and—”

Scott laughed sharply. “It’s in a ditch! Even if we get it out, you still don’t know how to drive in the snow!”

“Scott,” Paul said quietly. Scott looked at his father, and with some effort he subdued his anger.

George was still waiting for someone to make a move on him and eyed this exchange suspiciously. “I’ll call the local sheriff and have them send someone for us. In country like this I’m sure they’ve got a 4x4 that can get us out of here.”

“Go ahead,” Jenny said quietly. “Call them. Ask them about the warrants. There aren’t any. You don’t work for the government anymore. This is kidnapping. You can’t do—”

“—I can do whatever I want!” George exploded, then pulled himself back in a bit. He glared at Paul and Scott and gestured firmly with his gun. “I know who you are, and I know what you are. You are an alien creature from another planet who’s trying to infiltrate human society. I know you killed Paul Forrester, and I still think you killed Stella Forrester to keep her quiet. You’ve contaminated our species with your offspring—how many others have you scattered around the planet? You’re an inhuman creature in human clothing. And I’ve got proof. Signed affidavits from people who’ve seen you do things no human could ever do, your entire track record for the last three years with names, places, dates. I’ve even got your complete, detailed records from that half-wit house in Oregon!” He laughed with a vindictive gloat. “Once I’m through with you, there will be no doubt as to what you are. No more best sellers. No more fan clubs. Just the rest of your life ...,” he pointed threateningly at Paul for a long moment, “... in my hands.” He walked over to Paul. “For 18 years, you have made my life hell. People made fun of me, they laughed at me behind my back and to my face. I was denied promotions, I was shunned. I even lost my job. All because of you. Now you’re going to pay me back. In spades. And I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.”

Paul looked at him sadly. He could feel George’s surging desperation. There would be no point in talking to him. He wouldn’t hear. George had never been able to hear what Paul said. All Paul could do at this point was hope for a chance to escape on the way, but with three of them now escape was unlikely. Perhaps there would be a way to let Jenny and Scott get away. He would have to be quick to seize any opportunity George gave him.

George turned to Jenny and held out his hand. “Your car keys?”

She looked at him with surprise. “Mr. Fox, my car will never make it in this snow.”

“It’s a four-wheel drive,” he said matter-of-factly.

“But it doesn’t have enough clearance for this much snow,” she insisted.

George wasn’t interested in excuses anymore. “Your keys. And I’d get your jacket. It’s going to be a long drive.”

She saw the truth wouldn’t work, so she pulled a set of keys from her pocket and gave them to George, then slowly got her coat. George opened the front door, and a swirl of snow blew into the room. Daunted only for a moment, George herded the family outside into the twilight, turned off the lights, and closed the door.

The snow was deeper than George had expected, but he would not be stopped, not now when he had everything in his hands. He stopped the three of them beside the small wagon, which was now surrounded by fender-high drifts. He opened the door behind the driver’s seat and made Scott get inside. George would let nothing hurt this precious cargo, and he insisted Scott fasten his seatbelt before he handcuffed the teenager through the inside door handle. He led Paul and Jenny around to the other side of the car, and repeated the back seat process with Paul. He seated Jenny in the front passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt, then frowned when he saw the inside door handle was broken. He cuffed her hands together in front of her, then pointed the gun at her to underline his statement: “Keep your hands on the dash.” She put her hands up on the dashboard, and George stepped back from his handiwork, a gloating, almost incredulous smile on his face. The three looked back at him silently. “If only I had a camera,” he said with a flashing smile of old. He hurried around to the driver’s seat.

As he settled in behind the wheel, he surveyed the various stickshifts and dials before him. “Let’s see, it’s already in four-wheel drive ...,” he muttered to himself, then started the engine. The car turned over with a roar, and he turned on the wipers to remove the deep accumulated snow from the windshield. The blades scraped noisily, stiff in the cold and bumping over globs of ice on the glass. George turned the defroster up to high, but he was too impatient to wait for the view to clear. He shifted the car into reverse and tried to ease the car back into a tight turn for an about face in the driveway. The car shuddered and complained, not finding solid footing. The wheels spun with a whine, then the tires suddenly found traction and the car lurched back towards a tree. George hit the brake abruptly, and the car stalled. Too annoyed and embarrassed to look at the others, he started the car again, then shifted into first gear and swung the car around in a wide, lumbering turn. He pushed the car into second too eagerly and traveled down the camouflaged driveway faster than the car’s headlights could show him the way.

George realized he had to hurry to beat the weather, and he hit the gas and shifted into third gear. The blanket of fresh snow covered the driveway and the surrounding land equally, so George figured if he drove through the treeless stretch alongside the homemade utility poles he would be all right.

No one saw the drift until it was too late. The small wagon rammed up against the barrier, the front wheels popping up off the ground as the bottom of the car was punched by the wedge of snow. Jenny exclaimed with surprise as George shouted, the wheel wrenched from his grasp. He pulled on the wheel to regain control, but the small car only spun around and slammed sideways into a tree in a cloud of erupting snow.

The wrenching sounds of the crash echoed in the sudden silence, and no one moved for a moment. Paul sat up, looking at Scott. “Are you all right?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

They looked at Jenny, who looked back and blinked. “I’m okay.” The three looked at George.

The driver’s side had taken the full force of the impact. George was slumped silently against the crushed door, his head resting on the shattered window. A spatter of blood cut a swath across the windshield. Paul yanked on his handcuffs, but they were securely holding him to the door. “Jenny, get my sphere from his pocket. Hold it up where I can see it.”

Jenny struggled with her bound hands, but she managed to get the sphere. Paul connected with it, and soon their handcuffs were undone. They got out of the car and Paul tried to open the driver’s door. But the door was smashed in at the hinge and still wedged against the now-cockeyed utility pole. There was no way to get it open. The three looked at the darkly silent form behind the wheel.

Paul started around to the front passenger door. “We’ve got to get him back to the cabin.”

“But, Dad, what if he broke his neck?” Scott countered. “We can’t move him.”

Paul frowned. He opened the front passenger door and sat on the seat, laying a light hand on George’s shoulder. He got out of the car seriously. “His neck isn’t broken, but his head’s badly hurt. We need to get him inside.”

“How?” Scott asked again. “We can’t carry ...” Scott shook his head as Paul connected with his sphere. The car shook lightly, and Scott stared as he got it. The car lifted off the ground and turned, almost in seeming astonishment, and faced back towards the cabin. Jenny and Scott hung back, trying not to breathe, as Paul, in intense concentration, walked back down the driveway, the car preceding him just above the ground.

Paul set the car down near the cabin’s front door, and then he concentrated on the driver’s door. The car shuddered, and the door groaned with a harsh scraping sound of metal against metal. Paul stepped up to the door as it slid open, and the silent George slipped from the driver’s seat and dropped into Paul’s arms. Scott joined his father, and they gathered up their unconscious captor. Jenny ran to the cabin’s door and opened it. She flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. She looked at the askew utility pole and saw for the first time the severed power and telephone lines dangling uselessly near the ground. She went into the cabin and found the kerosene lamps.

Paul and Scott carried George in and put him on the bed in Kathy Ferguson’s bedroom. Jenny brought in towels and a bowl of water, and the father and son made George as comfortable as they could as Jenny held the lamp over the scene. Cleaning George’s wound revealed a modest cut that soon stopped bleeding, but George had a deeper, hidden injury that Paul was unable to discern. He could see an injury, but he was unfamiliar with it and didn’t know how to treat it. He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

Scott took his sphere from George’s pocket and nodded to his father with teenage authority. “My turn.” Scott connected with his sphere and put his hand on George’s forehead. Jenny watched with amazement as Scott looked inside George for the answer. There it was, the bruise and the bleeding. He nodded and sealed the broken vessels. He disconnected and looked at his parents. “He has a concussion.”

Jenny was astonished at Scott’s accomplishment. Paul smiled proudly at his son, understanding what was happening. “You’ve been practicing.”

Scott shrugged, still not ready to accept he could do something his father couldn’t. “I’ve had some experience with this.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Paul asked.

Scott shook his head. “Get him to a hospital.”

Paul frowned at that. “What are we supposed to do if we can’t do that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he’s going to die. I’ll show you what’s wrong.” He connected with his sphere and looked at the injury again, and as his father looked in he explained what a concussion was and what he had done. Paul listened with appreciation, sorry that he had missed being with Scott when his understanding began.

“So what do we do?” Jenny asked.

Scott shrugged and looked at his father. Paul was as unsure as Scott. “We can’t leave him here, and we can’t take him anywhere. I guess all we can do is wait until he wakes up.” They looked at George, who had a deathly pallor in the flickering light of the lamp.

They divided up the work to be done. Paul went out to look at the disconnected phone and power lines while Scott and Jenny put George to bed. Scott joked about how strange it was that this man, who had been trying to put them away for so many years, was now theirs to babysit. The lights flickered on as they were tucking George in, and they smiled at each other. Jenny turned on the small lamp near the bed, then joined Scott at the bedroom door to survey the room one last time. She looked at Scott. “Is he going to be all right?”

“I don’t know.”

She appreciated his uncertainty, then smiled at him. “My son the doctor.” She hugged him, and they savored the reunion. Then, arms around each other, they headed for the kitchen. “Too bad your father doesn’t have one of those other kind of spheres. Did he ever tell you about what happened when the state troopers—”

They stopped abruptly as Paul came through the front door with George’s gun in his hand. They looked at each other solemnly, then Paul said in a quiet voice, “I didn’t think we should leave it in the car.”

“What are we going to do with it?” Jenny asked.

Paul opened his other hand to reveal the gun’s bullets. “Hide them.”

Jenny gingerly took the gun and bullets and hid them in separate places in the cabin. Then the family did an everyday event for the first time—they had dinner together. The mood was quietly cheerful, and Scott was ebullient and full of humor. At one point he turned to his mother and said, “You know, Mom, you’re a lot shorter than I remember.” He looked at his father. “She used to be really tall,” he said, gesturing way over his head. He shook his head as he frowned at her. “I don’t know what happened to you.”

She smiled at Scott. “I still say it’s unnatural for a three-year-old to have feet that big.”

Paul watched the two in silent alarm. They saw his bafflement and burst out laughing. “It’s okay, Dad,” Scott said, “you’ll get used to us.” Jenny smiled at Scott, and Scott lingered on his words when he realized he had spoken of his mother and said “us.” It was a heady moment.

After dinner, Paul took the first watch with George, and Jenny and Scott sat out by the fire and talked all evening. She wanted to know everything about how he had been, and she especially wanted to know about his life with the Lockharts. He told her as much as he could. When he couldn’t think of anything else, he asked her about what he had been like as a child.

She smiled. “You were a beautiful baby. You almost never cried. Whenever we’d have to leave a place because Fox found us, you’d sit in your car seat or in my lap and look out the window. You thought it was great.”

He laughed. “I always liked traveling. I must have gotten that from Dad.” They both smiled over the significance of his comment.

Jenny became thoughtful. “I’m sorry about what I did, Scott. I hope it hasn’t been too bad for you. I was trying to do the right thing. I’m not very good at running away and being chased all the time. I thought it was better if you had a normal life instead of the life you’d have with me.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” he said, denying the welling pain in his heart.

“I didn’t know the Lockharts,” she said. “I didn’t even know their names until Paul told me. I knew they were good people. They were close friends of a friend of mine. I figured if I didn’t know where you were and Fox caught me, you’d still be safe.”

Scott began to feel her anguish at giving him up. How terrible it must have been for her, giving her child away to be raised by total strangers! “But wait a minute,” he said. “What about the tape from the lawyer’s office?”

“I gave the tape to Joan—my friend. She handled the rest.” She shook her head. “It backfired on me, though. After a while, I got settled, and I wanted you back. But when I called Joan, she’d moved. I didn’t know where she was, I didn’t know where you were ...” She looked at the flames. “It was pretty awful.”

He remembered the incident with the building blocks. “So the Lockharts didn’t know anything about me.”

She shook her head. “Just a few things about your family, and that I didn’t want to give you up but I had to. And that I loved you very much.”

“And that the sphere was a gift from my father,” he added thoughtfully.

“Yes.”

He smiled to himself. No wonder they had reacted the way they did to his little demonstration. They must have thought he had escaped from an experimental lab somewhere.

“It’s probably just as well I didn’t know where you were,” Jenny said softly. “If I’d showed up five years later, you would have been pretty confused about who this stranger was claiming to be your mother.”

He looked at her earnestly. “Mom, I never forgot who you were. Never.”

Jenny smiled as her eyes filled with tears, and she took his hand. “I must have done something right to deserve you.” Her smile became tinged with sadness. “I made a lot of mistakes, and I’m afraid you’re the one who paid for them, even before you were born.”

“What do you mean?”

She hesitated with embarrassment. “... Did Mom—Mary—tell you about the argument she and I had before you were born?”

He said quietly, “You mean about me being born in Madison?” She nodded. He shook his head. “Not really.”

“I was very stupid. After your father left, the FSA questioned me for a while. When they let me go, I thought they were through with me and I was free. When I told everyone about you, Mary sat down and worked out this whole plan with some friend of hers who was a doctor in the Caribbean—St. Kitts, I think—and I was going to have you there, and she was going to set up a false birth certificate and a whole story about me going through some experimental treatments so I could have children. And I was supposed to stay there for a couple years, and then I’d bring you back if everything looked okay.

“I didn’t want to do all that. I thought she was totally paranoid. Besides,” she said quietly, “my dad was really sick before you were born. He never would have been able to make a trip to St. Kitts. We didn’t know about Wayne’s son then, and I was afraid Dad would never get a chance to see any of his grandchildren. So I said no and had you in Madison. Dad got to see you—” she flashed a smile “—he was so proud of you,” she said, then her face darkened, “and George Fox showed up three days later.” She shook her head. “We almost didn’t get away. I still can’t believe what we did. You had your first escape when you were three days old.”

“What happened?” Scott asked eagerly.

She smiled with amazement. “It was crazy. It was in the evening, just before visiting hours ended. I remember it was really hot, and the air conditioning wasn’t working, so all the windows were open. Mr. Fox was down at the hospital’s front desk arguing with the nurse on duty, and his voice carried all over the hospital.” Scott chuckled. That sounded familiar. Jenny continued, “I recognized his voice, and I panicked.

“If it hadn’t been so terrifying,” she continued, “it would have been kind of funny. My parents and Mary were visiting, and Mary turned into Napoleon and gave everybody instructions, and we had flanking maneuvers, and diversions, and it was crazy. All three of them were running around the hospital carrying a bundle that looked like a baby, so he would have to chase all of them down to make sure they didn’t have you.”

Scott laughed. “You’re kidding!”

Jenny laughed with her son, finally able to see the humor in it now. “This was the old hospital, and it was like a rabbit warren so they could just go and get lost.”

“Where were you?”

“I got you out of the nursery and took off in Mom and Dad’s car.” She smiled at the memory. “Dad was so proud. Fox never caught him. I heard later that he was wandering around in the basement and found the repairmen working on the air conditioning. He was a mechanical engineer, and he helped them out. They found the problem and they had it working again before he left.” She laughed. “Upstairs, your grandmothers are being yelled at by the head nurse and about fourteen doctors and Fox is out running around in the streets trying to find me, and your grandfather’s downstairs fixing the hospital’s air conditioning!” Scott laughed with her. “Dad was so proud of that. He said, ‘I’m the one with emphysema, and I got away!’“

Scott laughed with her, then asked quietly, “What happened to him?”

“He died a few months after that,” she said gently. “Wayne told me later that Mom said he was joking on the way to the hospital about outrunning the feds.” She smiled wistfully.

“Then you did the right thing,” Scott said softly, “having me where he could see me.”

She smiled at her son with appreciation. “You’re named after him. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“Allen. Allen is a family name from his mother’s side. He was the seventh generation in his family with that name. You’re the ninth. He was Allen John Geffner, and your uncle is Wayne Allen Geffner, and you’re Scott Allen Hayden.”

He nodded, then gave her an arch look. “You know, after I met Dad, I wondered about that. I thought maybe you named me after Dad, too, as well as Scott, because ‘Allen’ looks a lot like ‘Alien.’“

Jenny burst out laughing. “I never thought of that!”

Jenny’s laughter drew Paul out into the living room. “I think it’s more fun in here,” he said.

“How is he?” Jenny asked.

Paul shook his head. “He’s the same.”

Jenny patted Scott on the leg and got up. “You’ve had a long day. Get some sleep, and I’ll take the next watch.”

Scott didn’t like that idea. There was so much he wanted to talk about with her. But he reluctantly obeyed and made up a bed on the couch. He had a secret plan to wait for 15 minutes or so and then join his mother with the excuse of not being able to sleep. But his plan was for naught when he fell asleep before his head hit the pillow and he didn’t awake until the smell of cooking bacon roused him nearly 12 hours later.

******

Tuesday morning passed quietly. George was still unconscious, but now his sleep was disturbed by restlessness and vague murmurings. Most of what he said was unintelligible, but a pattern of repeated names and phrases developed. Orders to Ben Wylie, bits of arguments about his budget, frenzied assertions that “the alien is here,” and other leitmotifs were present. After a while, the others no longer paid attention to the stream of words which flowed from his unlocked mind.

However, Jenny was in for a scare after lunch when she took her turn staying with George. In his daze, he sat up and stared at her. “No,” he pleaded, “you can’t go. I won’t let you. Betty!” He lunged for her, and Paul and Scott rushed into the room at the sound of Jenny’s cries for help as George was frantically trying to hold on to her. It was all Paul and Scott could do to get him back onto the bed. Paul assured George that “Betty” wasn’t leaving, and under the influence of Paul’s applied calm George gratefully slipped back into unconsciousness. After some time to gather themselves, they decided that perhaps, just in case, it would be safer if they handcuffed George to the bed frame, especially at night.

Paul and Scott spent the rest of the afternoon outside dealing with the cars. They found George’s car in the ditch off the deserted county road. Paul elevated it from the ditch, and after they checked to make sure it was in good shape they drove it back to the cabin. Then they fixed the little station wagon’s driver’s door. The weather was warming up, but that only turned the snow into sleet. The snow ground cover became packed down far enough to give Jenny’s small wagon clearance, but the snow was crusting over with the new layer heavy ice. They found a utility blanket in the garage and spread it over the wagon’s windshield and front doors to keep them ice-free.

When Paul and Scott finished and headed back towards the warm, dry haven of the cabin, Scott remembered the files of information George had boasted about and retrieved them from George’s car. As they brought the files inside, the cabin’s lights were flickering. Paul checked with his sphere to see if his repair work had come undone, but the source of the flickering was beyond the property somewhere. The power went out about 15 minutes later, and when Jenny tried to call the power company’s repair number, she discovered the phone was out as well. She turned on the battery-powered radio and heard a report that electricity and phone service were out through most of the county due to ice accumulating on power and telephone lines, and repair crews wouldn’t even be sent out until the ice storm stopped. She asked Paul if he could do something about the electricity. He said he could create some electricity for the house, but it would only be temporary and it would be better to save that for an emergency. So they prepared for a long, dark night and set up kerosene lamps around the cabin as twilight came. Jenny cooked soup for dinner on top of the Franklin stove.

After they ate, the three looked over George’s files. By itself, the collection of incidents would not prove Paul wasn’t the real Paul Forrester, but it would cast enough doubt on him to ruin his chances for a normal, peaceful life. They debated burning the papers, but Paul vetoed that. The papers weren’t the problem; George was. Paul put George’s folder in his own bag for safekeeping.

The evening took on an ominous feel in the pale, fluttering lamplight as George’s murmurings began again, and outside the windows the clatter of the ice-covered tree branches shifting restlessly in the wind added an unsettling percussion. Every so often the gloom would be punctuated by the crash of a tree limb giving way under the coating of ice.

Paul went to bed early, and Scott and Jenny took the evening watch, talking quietly as George muttered intermittently. Scott held Jenny in conversation as long as he could for two reasons: He had a million questions for her, and he also wasn’t looking forward to keeping the watch until dawn by himself, especially on such a spooky night. Jenny stayed awake as long as she could, but she gave out around midnight and, after checking to make sure George’s handcuff was securely fastened to his wrist and the stout headboard, she kissed Scott good night and left.

Scott watched George sleep for a while. Here was this man who, in Irmtraud’s words, had been chasing him since before he was born. Scott had always been so afraid of him, this federal bloodhound who refused to give up. Scott thought again about being in the laboratory in Peagrum Air Force Base, lying trapped in that glass “coffin,” looking up at George in the observation room above them. He had just stood there and watched them, for hours on end, while the scientists dressed in isolation gear moved through their endless stream of tests. That image of George’s eyes boring holes in him was burned into Scott’s mind, and more than a few times he had been jolted awake in the middle of the night by that memory.

Now the tables were turned, Scott thought, as he watched George shift in his uneasy sleep. Now Scott was the watcher, the observer ... the captor. He thought how strange it was that he had never fantasized about what he would do if he ever got George into a situation like this. Maybe the possibility was too outlandish. Maybe he knew whatever he could come up with wouldn’t do any good; it seemed to him that revenge works best when the victim doesn’t expect it, and George would expect the worst from them. Besides, Scott knew getting back at people was not his strong suite. He had bloodied a few noses in his time, but it was always in the heat of the moment—someone punched him, he punched them back. His one venture in full-scale retaliation had left a bad taste in his mouth. He thought about Billy McIlroy, and he wondered what strange stories he and Buck Henshaw were telling everyone. His thoughts turned to Melany, and he wondered if she got to Madison all right. If the phone had been working, he would have contemplated calling her, even at this hour. He needed a friendly voice right now.

Scott looked at George, and he recalled the awful night he spent watching his Uncle Wayne go through his injury madness in the desert. He rubbed his eyes. He felt so old. How old was he, anyway? He understood now that age was relative. He felt like an old man at 17, and people like Billy McIlroy and the Henshaw brothers would be kids no matter how old they got. And what was George Fox, Scott thought, as he examined the sleeping man’s face. He tried to imagine George as a 17-year-old, and he almost laughed. No, some things were too weird even to think about.

Scott shifted back into the chair. At least it was comfortable. He wished he had a radio to keep him company. George seemed to be resting quietly now, and Scott guessed that was probably a good sign. Scott thought of Melany again, and he smiled contentedly. He thought about that morning in the cabin, and about seeing her again ... He drifted into a peaceful slumber.

Scott didn’t know he was asleep. The room looked just the same. The sky had cleared, and the ice-covered trees outside the window glittered in pale moonlight. The wind had stopped, and the clatter of the trees had ceased. The quiet was intoxicating. Suddenly George Fox’s piercing eyes popped in front of Scott. Scott shouted in terror and jerked back into the chair.

Scott blinked as he caught his breath. The face before him had vanished. The sole sound in the still room was the pounding of his heart. The lamp had gone out, and the only light came from the pale starlight reflecting off the white landscape outside the window. Scott began to calm down as he realized it had been a dream.

Scott looked over at George, then flinched. George was sitting bolt upright in the bed, his left hand held back at the headboard by the handcuff. He was staring at Scott, and his wild eyes glistened eerily in the weak light. The two stared at each other for a long moment, and then George looked back at his manacled hand. He tugged furiously on the shackle, then turned back to Scott and glared at him as he continued to pull on the chain.

The terrified teenager leapt out of his chair. “Dad!” he shouted. “Mom! He’s awake!” Scott backed away towards the room’s door, and in a few moments he was joined by his parents.

George looked at the family in horrified amazement. He had no memory of where he was, and he was absolutely convinced this was a hallucination. Or, at least, it was impossible to tell this hallucination from all the others he had been the prisoner of over the last days.

Jenny was tying the belt on her bathrobe and stayed a bit behind Paul. “How do you feel?” she asked George hesitantly.

He stared at her. “Unlock me.” His shrill voice echoed in the still room. No one moved. He pulled sharply on his manacle. “Unlock me!”

Keeping a watchful eye on George, Paul held out his hand to Scott. “Give me your sphere.” Scott complied, and Paul connected with it.

George looked at the glowing sphere with terror. “What are you doing? What are you doing!?” Paul said nothing but looked at George. “Stop!” George shrieked. “Stop it!”

Paul disconnected and gave the sphere back to Scott. “He seems to be all right,” he said quietly. “But I don’t think he remembers what happened.”

Scott glanced at George warily, then said to his father, “That’s pretty normal with concussions, I guess.”

George looked back and forth at the two. “Concussion? What are you talking about? I want you to let me go right now!” He punctuated his demand with a fervid yank on his handcuff.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said to him evenly, “I can’t. You were in an accident. You hurt your head.”

“Accident?” George spat out a derisive laugh. “I bet. Why haven’t you killed me? What do you want from me?”

Paul backed out of the door and said to Jenny, “Get dressed. We should make breakfast.”

“Forrester!” George shouted. “What do you want from me? I won’t talk! You won’t get anything from me!”

Paul signaled Scott to leave the room with them, and the teenager gladly complied.

“Forrester! _Forrester!_ ” George shouted after them, but they were gone. He sat alone in the dark room, terrified and trying desperately to remember what happened. Paul had said there was an accident; George scoffed at that. It was another of his tricks. He wrestled with his cloudy memory. What had happened? He remembered talking with the sheriff in Montana, and driving east, ... then there was something about listening to the radio and hearing about Scott ... He rubbed his head hard. He couldn’t remember clearly after that. He kept seeing a bus, but he didn’t know what that meant. He tried to turn on the lamp by the bed, but nothing happened. He frowned. It was probably another trick, trying to intimidate him somehow. He stared when he saw the telephone next to the lamp, and he cautiously picked up the receiver. There was no dial tone, and he slammed the receiver back down. Another trick! Building him up to let him down. But he was stronger than that. They wouldn’t get to him. They would never break him, no matter what.

Through the open bedroom door George watched as the now-dressed family members passed through the house. He could see Scott starting a fire in the Franklin stove, and George heard the sound of eggs being cracked and then whipped. He looked at his watch: 3 a.m. Wednesday the 8th. _Wednesday_. What was the last day he remembered? Saturday in Montana. He fought a wave of panic—what had they done to him?

Paul and Jenny put together the ingredients for a hearty breakfast, then waited for the top of the Franklin stove to heat up to a cooking temperature. They sent a reluctant Scott to go keep an eye on George from the bedroom doorway, and then they talked quietly in the kitchen. They had never discussed what they were going to do with George once he woke up, and now they were facing a dilemma. They couldn’t simply let him go, because he would lay in wait for them. The only option they seriously considered was leaving him handcuffed to the bed and then, once they were a safe distance away, they would call the local police to let them know he was there. But they couldn’t do that until the roads were safe and all the phone lines were working. Jenny turned on the radio in hopes of catching a local news update, but it was just past three and the next news wouldn’t be until the top of the hour.

When breakfast was ready, Jenny made up a plate for George and took it in to him. Scott was standing just outside the bedroom door, watching George guardedly. George was still the picture of defiance, hiding his fears about what had happened to him—and what was going to happen to him.

Jenny put down a bright kerosene lamp and held out the plate of scrambled eggs and toast to him. “I’m making coffee. Do you want some?”

“I want an explanation about what you’re planning on doing with me.”

Jenny looked at Scott and nodded for him to leave. He left for the kitchen. Jenny set George’s unclaimed plate on his bed and sat in the empty chair. “When the roads are clear, we’re going to leave and then call the police and tell them you’re here.”

George eyed her. She was the one he could work on. She was human, like him. He could play on that. He took the plate and scrutinized the food. “Did you salt the eggs?” he asked calmly.

“Not very much,” she said. If you want more, I can go get some.”

“Thank you.” He took a bite, and he suddenly realized how famished he was. “It’s very good.”

“Good,” she said. “If you want more, let me know.”

“Thank you.” He ate quietly with his free hand for a moment, and then it was time to turn up the charm. “Mrs. Hayden, I have nothing against you, you understand that. You were a victim of an incredible circumstance many years ago, and I don’t blame you for what you’ve done.”

She watched him eat. “I don’t know what you mean by victim.”

He said quietly, “You were kidnapped from your cabin, you were forced to drive an alien creature from God Knows Where to a rendezvous site in Arizona ...,” he proceeded carefully, “... you were forced to do all kinds of things. I can’t imagine the trauma you went through. Most people would have broken under the strain. If you’ve made some ... faulty decisions since then, it’s certainly understandable.”

Jenny said nothing at first, then asked, “Are the eggs all right? Do you need more salt?”

“No,” he smiled politely, “they’re just right.” The eggs did need more salt, but keeping her in the room was more important than sending her for the salt shaker. He tried to read her, but she was giving nothing away. He could tell she wasn’t going to respond to what he said, so he continued. “I’m sorry about what happened to you, Mrs. Hayden. I wish there were some way to undo it. I wish that we could protect our planet better so this will never happen again.” He paused, then gave her a solicitous glance. “You wouldn’t want someone else to go through this, would you?”

She looked at him noncommittally. “What do you want me to do, Mr. Fox?”

George couldn’t tell if he had her or not, so he played it safe. “I want you to remember who you are, and what you are, and where your loyalties lie, and that ... that thing in the other room ruined your life.”

A faint smile touched her lips and she said thoughtfully, “He didn’t ruin my life. I got to say goodbye to the husband I lost, I got to have the child I never would’ve been able to have, I found a reason to live, and I met someone who was so innocent, and so gentle, it was like I found that inside myself again.” George pulled back. He knew she was beyond his reach. She looked at him sincerely. “Mr. Fox, I know most of you doesn’t really get what I’m saying. But I know there’s a little part of you that understands. ... I don’t know who Betty was—” George perked up with shock at the name “—but I know you cared about her very deeply. And if you can remember that, you know how I feel.”

George glared at her. What kind of trick was this? “How do you know about Betty?”

“Yesterday you were delirious, and you mistook me for her. You were pretty upset.” She gestured gently towards his manacled arm. “That’s why we had to do that.”

He put the plate down on the bed. He was no longer hungry. “Mrs. Hayden, I demand you let me go immediately. This is kidnapping.”

“That’s what you were doing to us,” she said quietly.

Her calm infuriated him, but he kept his composure. “I’m a federal agent. There are warrants—”

“There aren’t any warrants,” she said. “And you’re suspended.”

“On leave,” he said pointedly, trying to salvage what dignity he could. “And I don’t believe for a minute that they would cancel the warrants on that _thing_.”

She got up slowly. “Do you want some coffee?”

“I want the keys to my handcuffs.”

She looked at him sadly for a moment, then left. George sat alone in the still room, knowing he had sealed his fate. He wondered what he was facing now, and his courage began to flag. He thought of the other federal agents who had given their lives in the line of duty. How many of them had wavered when their time came? He wondered if his body would ever be found ... or if there would be a body left. Would he simply vanish, a disgraced agent who would never be missed? He trembled for a moment, then got a grip on himself. No. They would not break him. They could kill him, but they could never break him. He looked at the half-eaten breakfast on the plate before him. It was a nice ploy, giving him something normal to soften him up. He smirked at the food. It wasn’t much for a condemned man’s last meal.

Jenny sat down at the table with Paul and Scott, but she only looked at the food on the plate before her. “He’s never going to give up,” she said. “He’s going to chase us forever.”

“What did you expect?” Scott said quietly.

She was the picture of disheartenment. “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “It’s a nightmare. It’s like in Fantasia, with those brooms. There’s no way to stop him. We need the sorcerer to come in and undo the spell.”

Paul didn’t know the reference, but he understood the point. He mused on this as he ate. He knew all too well that George’s prime motivating emotion was fear—fear of him. Paul knew George couldn’t see him for what he was. All he saw when he looked at Paul was his own fears. That was the spell which needed to be undone. But how could he show the truth to someone who was so blind?

After they finished, a displeased Scott was sent back to keep an eye on George as Paul and Jenny went about packing their belongings. A radio newscast informed them that road crews were now out plowing the county highways, and some disrupted electrical lines were already in service again. The report said emergency phone lines were working, and the rest would be repaired during the day.

George made a fuss at one point about needing to use the bathroom, but all he got for his commotion was a chamber pot. He had had a do-or-die escape attempt in mind—something, anything to force their hand and get this over with—and he wasn’t amused by the alternate choice. But he didn’t dare give himself away. He would simply have to come up with another plan.

As Jenny was in her bedroom packing her belongings, Paul went into the living room to put together the details for what he had to do. His working knowledge of human nature would now be put to its ultimate test. He hoped he had learned enough to make this work; their lives would depend on it.

Dawn was still more than an hour away when everyone was packed and ready. As they assembled in the living room, all that Jenny and Scott knew was that Paul was going to do something, but they didn’t know what.

Paul left Jenny and Scott in the living room, then went in to George. The agent regarded him stonily, more or less ready to play this out to its bitter end. Paul said nothing as he produced his sphere and connected with it. George steeled himself, waiting for the worst. But his surprise was palpable when his handcuff unlocked. He stared at the manacle, then rubbed his newly-freed wrist as he looked at Paul. All Paul said was, “Get dressed.” He indicated George’s clothes, which were still neatly folded on top of the bedroom’s dresser. Paul left the room, leaving the door open.

George sat in amazement for a moment, then his mind raced in seven different directions with seven different plans. He dressed slowly, looking around the room for anything he could turn into a weapon. He checked the window to see if he could escape through it, but the ice had sealed it shut and only a noisy effort would open it. He looked for a piece of wood he could break off and use as a dagger or club. But all the furniture in the room was too well made to break apart quickly for his needs. He looked for something which would work as a rope, but again all the potential implements he could find would need to be ripped apart, and that would foil any surprise. There were no small jewelry boxes which could be concealed and hurled, no wire to be stripped off the back of hanging picture frames to become a garrote, no hatpins or letter openers or even nails to slip up his sleeve. He looked around the room uselessly as the seconds clicked past. He was as helpless as the proverbial newborn babe striding the blast. Rushing them somehow was his only hope now, what little hope that was. He could feel them out there, waiting. Was he to be the amusement for the day? Was his demise to be Scott’s “graduation exam”?

His suppressed fears reached up and took him by the throat. He knew the alien had used some strange powers to extract the information about Betty; how could he know what else they had pulled from his mind? They could use his darkest demons against him, perhaps to test him, perhaps just for the fun of torturing him. The possibilities were endless, and he almost broke down. But he managed to gather himself, and after a silent and stiff prayer to God “in the name of all things human” to give him the strength to come through this, he straightened his shoulders and turned to the door. At least he could face them with dignity.

Paul, Scott, and Jenny were standing in the middle of the living room as George emerged. Scott and Jenny were content to let Paul take the lead on this, although each secretly harbored fears about Paul’s ability to deal with this cunning adversary.

“Well,” George said with so much composure that he surprised himself, “now what?”

Paul looked at George genuinely. “Now we talk.” He glanced at the others, but he focused on George. “When I first came to this planet, I only had three days, and there was so much to learn about you and about this place. But what stood out the most about your species was how contradictory you are. You’re violent and gentle, sometimes all at once. I found this very confusing. I’d never encountered anything like you before.

“Now that I’ve been back and living here for three years, I’ve learned so much more.” Paul smiled. “You’re more complex than you’ll ever understand. What I see so clearly is how easy change is for you. You’d be surprised how rare that is in the universe. Change sometimes takes millions of years, and you can do it in a moment. You among all the forms of life I’ve seen are most adept at separating yourselves from your physiology. You live locked in these bodies that are so limited and hold you back, and yet your minds and your hearts can transcend that and travel beyond your dreams. You can change how you think and how you feel, sometimes in an instant. It’s astonishing. If only you knew.”

George watched Paul carefully, waiting for a moment of weakness or inattention. He wondered where his gun was. God! What he’d give to have his gun!

Paul said to George seriously, “I know you’re afraid of me. You think I’m an invader, that I want something. I do want something. I want to live with my family.”

Scott smiled slightly to his mother, who was too concerned to respond in kind, but neither Paul nor George saw.

“They can’t live where I’m from,” Paul continued, “so I have to live here. That’s all I want.”

George could stay silent no longer. “If that’s all you want,” he blasted back, “why did you kill Paul Forrester?”

Paul regarded George earnestly. “I didn’t kill him. He was a reckless man. I think he believed he lived a charmed life and nothing could happen to him. But it did, and I found him. I had no interest in Paul Forrester. Using his form was convenient.” Paul frowned. “If I could do it over, I’d pick someone else.” He shook his head. “His life is too complicated.”

George regarded Paul coolly, not believing a word of this. It was a good ploy, but it still wasn’t working.

“I want to live here as a human,” Paul said solemnly, “but I can’t do that as long as you’re afraid of me. You’ll never stop chasing us—not until you change your mind.” George didn’t respond, although he did think it was amusing Paul hadn’t mentioned the other, more obvious, way to stop him; George knew it was just more of the ruse. Paul continued, “I don’t understand why you’re afraid. Scott said it’s probably because you’ve seen too many movies about monsters from outer space.” Scott was chagrined and George glowered at him. Paul said to George, “Tell me why you think we’d want to invade your planet.”

George reacted with surprise at that. He had never wasted time speculating about motives. He stammered a bit, then said lamely, “Our natural resources.”

“But you’re using them up,” Paul said.

George shot back, “There’s a lot more to our planet than that. I’m sure there are a lot of things you’d like to use that we can’t.”

Paul considered this for a moment. “I think if we wanted that it would make more sense to find another planet like yours—” he glanced at Scott “—they’re called Class M planets?”

Scott eyed Paul flatly. “Dad, never mind.”

Paul continued to George, “Find another planet like this that didn’t have people on it. Wouldn’t that make more sense?”

George frowned. What kind of useless sophistry was this? Why didn’t they just get it over with?

Paul said, “That doesn’t make sense. Why else would we want your planet?”

George stammered again, then said, “Slave labor.”

Paul frowned as he contemplated this sickening idea. “Why would we do that?”

George had had enough of this, and he snapped angrily, “How should I know? I don’t know anything about you.”

Paul eyed him intently. “Yes, that’s the point. You don’t.”

George scowled as Scott glanced proudly at his father. Paul smiled slightly and said, “Mr. Fox, have you ever wondered what I look like? What I am?”

George blinked with surprise. He knew this was a trick, but he couldn’t see where it was leading. He didn’t respond.

Paul took out his sphere. “I think you should see.” Paul connected, then said, “Look into the sphere.” Paul looked at George and saw his resistance. He eyed George with a frown. “Are you afraid?”

George bristled at that. Of course he was afraid, but he would never let them know that. He steeled himself and looked at the sphere. At first he saw nothing. He didn’t want to. But then there was an image—was it in his eyes or his mind? The image was a soft but brilliant blue light; George thought it should have blinded him, but instead in a strange way it was soothing to look at. He was transfixed for a moment by the beautiful sight, but he forced himself to snap out of it. He examined the image, trying to find the alien behind the light or in its glow somewhere. His surprise unfolded slowly as he realized the blue light wasn’t there to illuminate the alien—it _was_ the alien. He stared at it. It was incomprehensible. How could this be ...? Of course. Another trick. He frowned at Paul. “Do you expect me to believe that’s what you look like?”

“It is what I look like,” Paul said, “whether you believe it or not.”

George crossed his arms and looked away. He had had enough of this charade. He was in no hurry to die, but he was tired of all the delaying.

Paul frowned. He hadn’t wanted to resort to this, but George was refusing to see the truth before him. He said to Scott, “Get a mirror.”

Scott looked at Jenny, and she said, “In the linen closet.”

George tried not to betray his curiosity as Scott left and returned with a hand mirror. Scott handed it to Paul, then stood next to Jenny and wondered what his father was going to do. Then a memory flashed through his mind: Dusty. He looked at George, then closed his eyes. This was going to be bad.

Paul said to George firmly, “Even when you look at me, you refuse to see who I am. I don’t think you know yourself, either. It’s time you saw what you really look like.”

George glowered. Okay, he thought, this was it. Let the mind games begin. He braced himself and looked at Paul with disdain. “I don’t care what you do to me. It isn’t going to work.”

Paul regarded him firmly. “If you won’t believe what I am, maybe you’ll believe what’s inside you.” Paul held the mirror up to George, then connected with his sphere. George looked away, exuding bravado. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something flash in the mirror, but he refused to look. However, a voice caught him off-guard—a voice from inside the mirror.

“George!” He couldn’t help but look. There was Betty, anger and disappointment on her face. My God, George realized, this was 20 years ago at least. She pouted, “I can’t believe you’re going tonight of all nights.”

George frowned when he heard his reply. “I’m sorry,” his words flowed with an easy, clipped professionalism. “You know how it is. I get a call, I have to go.” Betty was the picture of resentment, but she said nothing. George remembered the moment all too well. It had been their anniversary, but there had been an emergency at work. The choice was duty or dinner. Betty would understand; General Wosciewski wouldn’t.

George glared at Paul. “I demand to know how you got this information.”

Paul regarded him benignly but said nothing.

The image in the mirror flashed ahead. George saw himself interrogating Jenny after the alien had left. It was the third day of questioning, and he had lost his temper. “I know you’re lying!” he was bellowing at her. “I don’t care how long it takes! I’m going to find out everything that happened! And there’s nothing you can do about it!” He could see Jenny cowering away from him, and he winced at the sound of the rage in his voice. When General Wosciewski had seen the videotape of that day’s questioning, he had given George a public reprimand for being so brutal with her. The added ignominy came when George, who had been prepared to keep Jenny in custody for as long as it took, was given another lecture from the general about certain technicalities—habeas corpus being the most prominent among them—which were foundations of the American judicial system. Not sure who he was more angry at, George had reluctantly obeyed his superior and let her go. As George looked at the image, he tried to find solace in the fact that at least he had been right. But the blind rage in his voice and the general’s stinging rebuke for his total disregard for the system he was supposed to be defending lingered in George’s mind.

The image changed again. He didn’t recognize this one at first, but then slowly, reluctantly, it came to him. It was about a year after Scott was born. He had tracked Jenny and the baby down to a Texas border town. He had missed them by one day, and in the mirror George could see the browbeating he had given the Mexican family they had stayed with. He had been so furious at losing the two again that the ruckus he raised caused the local INS officials to have the family deported, even though they were legally registered residents and had actually done nothing wrong. He winced as he looked at the reflection. He hadn’t meant for that to happen, and he had only found out about it a month later when General Wosciewski gave him another lecture about his “vendetta attitude.” George couldn’t quite shrug it off. He had always considered General Wosciewski a blind fool who didn’t want to see what was really going on, and that the biggest boost the project got in its first five years was when that bleeding heart retired. But the general’s words had a strange ring of truth echoing again so many years later.

As George was scrambling to defend himself against what he was seeing the image switched again and cut his heart in two. It was when Betty had left. He had always remembered the scene as being tense but polite, with her announcing that she couldn’t take it anymore and she would no longer share him with his work, and him stolidly standing by as she walked out the door. But what he saw and heard was a something altogether more painful. The scene was a bitter shouting match, with her reviling the changes that had come over him since Project 617W had started and him calling her “selfish” for not trying to understand how important this was and for putting her own wants first. Her departure was tearful, and he winced at the shrill sound of his voice as he shouted after her not to come back.

George covered his eyes, fighting to keep his composure. He could no longer separate what he knew had happened, what he thought had happened, and what he was afraid the alien had planted in his brain. But before he could regain his balance, more voices beckoned from the mirror and he couldn’t keep his eyes away. A rapid succession of memories and situations flashed before him; some he remembered, many he had forgotten. The theme was the same—his relentless pursuit of Paul, Jenny, and Scott at the expense of his good standing at work, his marriage, his friendships, his life. There were the department Christmas parties he had missed because he wanted to go over the 617W files just once more. He relived his first meeting with General Wosciewski’s successor, during which George lost his temper when the new general didn’t immediately see that 617W should be the agency’s top priority case; George had said a few things he shouldn’t have and his candor cost him a demotion. The barrage of image after image wore George down as it showed him the terrible progress of his life as he descended from a well-respected agent in charge to a forsaken, obsessed vigilante. The last sequence was excruciating: Kurt Keitzer’s heart attack during his questioning, General Gates’s adjutant stripping him of his job, bribing the Sunset Beach hospital lab technician for a copy of Paul’s blood test report, breaking into the Sampson Springs shelter house to steal Paul’s file. It was too much to bear; the panoply of George’s self-destruction washed over him as he was no longer able to fight. A final ghostly image faced him in the mirror—his haggard, dispirited face. It took him a while to realize it was him now.

Paul withdrew the mirror sadly. “I’m sorry. You wouldn’t have understood anything else.”

George looked around the room unsteadily, trying to gather what few scraps of himself were left. His eyes wandered to Scott; strange, he thought, he had concentrated so much on him being the impossible son of a dead man and a creature from some other world that he had never noticed how much the boy looked like his mother. He gazed at Jenny and frowned. How tired she looked. He eyed Paul. “What are you going to do with me?”

As Scott and Jenny looked at Paul with concern, he sized George up, hoping this would work. “I’m going to give you a choice. We’ve all made sacrifices to do what we thought was best, at a terrible cost. It has to stop, and I think it should stop now.” He looked at Jenny and Scott, then back to George. “We’re not going to run anymore. So now you have to make the choice: Let us go,” he reached into his jacket pocket and produced George’s handgun, “or kill us.”

Scott and Jenny recoiled with surprise, and George stared with disbelief at his weapon. Paul extended it to him butt first, and after an uncertain moment, George’s instincts took over and he grabbed it. He popped the barrel open and saw that the gun was loaded, then he snapped the barrel back into place and pointed the gun at Paul unsteadily. Paul regarded him impassively, and George viewed him with a frown. His faltering instincts told him the alien was no good to threaten—he needed to hit the weak link. George looked at Jenny. He could see the terror in her eyes, but he could also see her resolve. She wouldn’t give in. George quickly turned the gun on the ashen, wild-eyed Scott. “Come on,” he said in as strong a voice has he could muster, “we’re going to get in the car and—”

“—No,” Paul said firmly as he put a calm hand on Scott’s arm. Paul gazed at the wavering George. “Shoot us, or let us go free.”

There was no choice. George pointed the gun at Paul’s face. He knew he couldn’t let this thing loose on the planet, he couldn’t let him win, he couldn’t let ... he couldn’t ... George looked at his hand. Why wasn’t his hand pulling the trigger? What had the alien done to his gun? A quick examination of the weapon revealed nothing was wrong. He thrust the pistol at Paul again. He knew he could do it. Just pull the trigger. He’d done it so many times before. Whenever he had imagined the target at the FSA firing range was the alien, his accuracy rating had always gone up five points. Just pull! he shouted in his head. Squeeze the trigger! Pull! It would all be over! He could finally live again!

But no matter how hard George tried, his hand wouldn’t obey. The gun became a leaden weight, pulling his hand down. He couldn’t do it. He was finally the master of his own fate, but he couldn’t take that last step. He had lost. His arm fell to his side.

Scott and Jenny began to breathe again. Paul stepped up to George gently and eased the gun from his hand. “George.” George looked at him, broken. Paul smiled. “Thank you.” Paul looked at Scott and Jenny and said quietly, “Wait for me in the car.”

The two gratefully gathered their bags and headed for the cabin’s front door. But as Scott stepped through the threshold into the first indigo shades of day, Jenny hesitated in the doorway. Scott stopped when he saw she wasn’t following, and he watched her with concern as she looked back at the still-dazed George. On an impulse, she went to him and gave him a small hug. “Thank you,” she whispered and left with her son. George blinked numbly, still too overwhelmed by his failure to register anything more than mild surprise. George watched them leave. A faint command echoed in his brain that he was supposed to stop them, but the familiar message no longer made sense.

Paul looked at George, then pulled a set of keys from his pocket and gave them to him. “Here are your car keys. Your car’s out front. It’s all right. You can stay here as long as you want. Be careful driving. The roads are icy.” Paul thought for a moment, then put the gun in George’s hand. The agent scrutinized him as best he could, searching that borrowed face to find an explanation of the enigma. But all he found was a gentle smile. “Goodbye,” Paul said, and headed for the door.

Paul was halfway through the door when George’s voice caught him. “Forrester.” Paul stopped and looked back at him. George was examining him. “When I had my heart attack, ... why didn’t you let me die?”

Paul smiled at him. “For the same reason you didn’t pull the trigger.” Paul turned and left.

George stood alone in the silent cabin as the room lightened with the approaching dawn. He heard the station wagon drive away, but he didn’t move. How could this have happened? How could 18 years of his life have come to this? What had happened to him? Who was to blame for this? He tried to blame this on the alien, but Betty’s parting rebuke the last time he saw her rang in his ears: “I don’t know who you are anymore. You’re a total stranger. We’ve been married for 12 years, and I’ve known about this alien for two, and I can honestly say at this point I know him better than I know you. And I think I like him more than you, too.” That had been the unkindest cut of all. He had blocked it out of his memory, but now he couldn’t make it stop repeating in his brain.

He walked out of the cabin into the new day. The cold air roused him, and he savored a few deep breaths of the crisp air. As he looked at the waking world around him, he contemplated what the alien had said about letting him survive his heart attack. He had always wanted to interrogate him about that. At first he thought he had hallucinated what the alien had done as he lay semi-conscious on the laboratory floor. The alien helping him certainly didn’t make any sense. But when the surprised doctors had given him a clean bill of health after months of alarmist checkups, he knew that what he had seen was no hallucination. What could the alien have possibly stood to gain from letting him live—not just letting him live, but actually healing his heart? That had always bothered him. The thought had never interfered with his work, but it had always stayed in the back of his mind. What was it the alien had said about it: “For the same reason you didn’t pull the trigger”? What was that supposed to mean? The alien had let him live because he chickened out? Because he broke? That didn’t make any sense. A trick? He sighed. It didn’t matter anymore.

He looked at his car, but he made no move towards it. After all, where would he go? He had no job, he had no family, he had no life ... He numbly looked at the gun still in his hand. He smiled slightly as he pondered a variation of the old conundrum: If a man shoots himself in the forest and no one hears the shot, is he really dead? ... Or was he ever really alive? He looked at the surrounding trees of the northern Wisconsin woods. The whole thing had started not far from here; it gave him a strangely peaceful sense of closure that it should come to an end here as well. He smiled. Let the Wylies of the world try to figure that one out for themselves.

******

Jenny had driven the station wagon almost a mile before Scott finally relaxed enough to let loose on his father. “I can’t believe you did that!” he wailed from the back seat. “I mean, my God! You dared him to kill us!”

Paul was still the picture of calm. “I didn’t think he’d pull the trigger. He’s not a murderer.”

That was no answer for Scott. “But Dad, that’s crazy! I can’t believe you did that.”

Paul shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Scott shook his head with disbelief. “I know this is a dumb question, but what would you have done if he’d pulled the trigger?”

“I would have been upset.”

Scott laughed incredulously. “You would have been dead!”

“No,” Paul said as he shook his head. “Bullets are rather complex. According to one of Evan Pierce’s books, if you tamper with the gunpowder in the bullet’s casing, nothing happens when you pull the trigger.”

Jenny had been listening to the conversation with interest, and at this she smiled, then started to laugh. Scott stared at his father. “I don’t believe it. You cheated!” Scott laughed with amazement.

“I didn’t cheat,” Paul corrected him. “I simply made sure no one would get hurt.”

Scott shook his head. “And I thought my father had turned into a maniac.”

Jenny looked at Paul. “So, is it over? He could still come after us.”

“I don’t think he will. Besides, I have his evidence file.” He shrugged. “If he does, we’ll deal with it then. But no, it isn’t over. Abigail said there are a lot of questions being asked about Paul Forrester. We have to answer all of them.” He sighed. “Then maybe it’s over.”

Scott and Jenny exchanged a weary glance in the rear view mirror. It was a big “maybe.”

******

Paul, Scott, and Jenny drove south on their way to Chicago, leaving the wintry weather behind and returning to autumn in the southern part of the state. They stopped in Madison for a surprise lunch hour visit at the Haydens’. Only Mary was home, but she greeted them with delight as they came into the house. The two women regarded each other with heartfelt joy, both of them having a lot to say to the other and neither sure how to say it. They excused themselves from the men and disappeared into the kitchen. Jenny began with an apology for not listening to Mary and her plan for confusing the circumstances of Scott’s birth. “I should have done what you wanted. None of this would have happened.”

“No,” Mary said with remorse. “None of this was your fault. I was very high-handed with you. I cut you off without letting you know you could always come back for help.” She shook her head with a knowing, contrite smile. “I wasn’t used to people saying no to me. And the truth is I completely underestimated George Fox. I thought I could fool him with some paperwork. But when he showed up at the hospital that night, I realized nothing I could have done would have stopped him ... and, especially with what happened with John later, I knew that what you did was best after all.” She blinked back welling tears. “I never had the chance to tell you I was wrong. I’m so very sorry, Jenny.” The two women shared a tearful embrace, and then they laughed at a pleasant memory as Mary reached for the roll of paper towels from the kitchen counter and they mopped up the spilled sentiment: “Just like when we tried out that awful onion soup recipe,” Mary said, and they laughed together again. They emerged from the kitchen with arms around each other, and Paul was glad to see another Hayden family wound finally heal.

Scott was disappointed to learn there would be no reunion that day with Melany. Mary told him that Hank had driven her to Rockland. “After I talked with her grandmother ...” She eyed Scott with a knowing smile. “She doesn’t like you very much, but given my impression of her, that only makes me like you all the more.” Scott smiled with appreciation. “Anyway, she’s washed her hands of Melany and doesn’t want her back. So once I found out she wasn’t just visiting, I had to find a place for her to stay. We talked with the Pierces over the weekend—she’s meeting them today—and it looks like she’s going to live with them and help Stephanie, and be a nanny for the twins.”

Scott smiled. “She’ll like that.”

Mary smiled with grandmotherly approval. “She’s a very nice girl, Scott. I like her a lot.”

He shrugged. “Well, we haven’t exactly settled anything.”

She shook her head nonchalantly. “Well, if you ever do, I just thought you’d like to know it’s okay with me.”

The four headed into the kitchen to make lunch when they heard a car pull into the driveway. “Hank’s back,” Mary said.

Jenny blanched. She didn’t want to face him, not now, maybe not ever. She turned and looked at the back door. She could slip out and go around the other side of the house while he came in through the front door.

Paul put a quieting hand on her arm. “It’s okay.”

“Paul, you don’t understand—”

“I do,” he said with that steady calmness than could be so unnerving. “It’s okay.”

It was too late to run. Hank came into the kitchen and stopped with surprise as he saw Jenny. The two looked at each other in bewilderment at the sudden meeting, and no one in the room moved.

When nothing happened, Mary looked at Paul and Scott with a gentle, “do as I say” smile. “Let’s go look at the lake.” She led the way outside. Jenny desperately wanted to go with them, but Paul gave her another reassuring nod before he left. From somewhere she found the strength to face this man whose doting love for her had turned so quickly to merciless fury when Scott died.

The intervening years melted away as Jenny looked at Hank. She could still hear his blistering condemnation of her—poured out in this very room —after she had come back from the hospital and made the wrenching official identification of Scott’s body. She had been numb, ripped apart inside, aching for all of it to be a terrible mistake. She had come into the kitchen with the cruel hope burning inside her that she would find Scott in his usual kitchen-visit pose, standing by the refrigerator, beer in hand, chatting with Mary as she made dinner. But what she found instead was Mary crying at the kitchen table and Hank blankly wandering around the room. He saw her and flew into a frenzy, shouting that the accident was her fault because she had left her car lights on and forced Scott to come pick her up when the streets were icy. Despite Mary’s tearful protests, Hank had thrown Jenny out of the house and forbad her from ever returning. He never softened during the following months, and she had fled Madison with her newborn son on that hot August night carrying the dreadful burden of knowing that she had ruined the lives of all those she held most dear.

Jenny came back to the present and regarded the old man who stood awkwardly before her. He was a far cry from the raging tyrant she had known before, but she couldn’t see him clearly through her bleak memories.

Hank cleared his throat. “You look good.”

“Thanks,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “You look good, too.”

He shuffled a step to the side uncomfortably. “Scott ... looks good.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

What he needed to say to her was welling up inside him, but he was fighting it. “... Are you here now?”

She shook her head. “We’re going to see Paul’s lawyer in Chicago.”

He nodded. “Good.” He glanced around the room, then looked at her. “You have a car?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He nodded again. The words were pushing up in his throat again, but he wasn’t ready and he forced them back down, substituting others. “Where you been?”

“Up north.”

“Ah. I hear they had some bad weather up there.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s pretty early.”

“Yeah.”

“... It’s the lake that does it.”

“I know.”

Hank nodded. The dam inside him finally broke, and the words rushed forth. “I’m sorry. ... Jenny, my beloved Jenny,” he said as his tears began to fall. She looked at him, bewilderment in her eyes. “It was my fault. The brake fluid in the car was low and I knew it. I shouldn’t have let Scott use the car. But I did, and he died. And I couldn’t face ... having killed my son ...” Jenny looked at him silently. “... Will you ever forgive me?”

She stepped up to him and took his hand. “Dad ...” Hank and Jenny joined in a tearful embrace.

Out at the water’s edge, Paul turned from looking out at the lake and gazed at the house. What was happening inside was radiating out in vibrant waves of love. Mary and Scott looked at him as he smiled. Scott looked at the house. It seemed to have a pink glow to him, but he wasn’t sure in the soft afternoon light. Mary looked at Paul, trying to read his reaction. “What is it?” she asked.

He nodded to her. “It’s all right.”

Mary understood and to her surprise she began to cry. Scott put his arm around her comfortingly. “It’s okay, Grandma.”

She hugged him and nodded. “It’s wonderful.” She beamed at him. “And I love it when you call me Grandma.” He laughed and they shared a long hug.

Mary took a minute to gather herself, and the three came back into the kitchen. When she saw Hank and Jenny sitting at the table, mopping up their eyes, Mary scowled. “Well,” she said firmly, hands on hips, “I can see I’m going to need to get more paper towels.” They laughed in spite of themselves and Jenny tossed Mary the whittled-down roll from the table.

After all the tears had been cried and the words of reconciliation spoken, the family finally had lunch. Paul and Jenny filled Mary and Hank in on the latest developments. Mary was particularly interested in what happened to George and expressed her concern about the state of his mental health. “I knew several people in the OSS who went through the same kind of thing, and before they had a chance to think it through, they killed themselves.” The three reacted with trepidation. “You’d be surprised how delicately balanced people like George Fox are. It might have been good to stay with him for a little while. Even 20 minutes would have been good.”

Paul reassured her, “I don’t think he’d do that. Besides, the bullets in his gun won’t work.”

She asked, “What about his reloads?”

Paul frowned. “Reloads?”

She shook her head knowingly. “Guaranteed somewhere in his car he had a box of bullets.”

Paul hadn’t figured on that. The thought sunk in, and they looked at each other. Each of the three _knew_ he wouldn’t ... Jenny immediately got up and called the cabin, but there was no answer.

Mary regarded them as Jenny sat at the table again and the three brooded on the awful thought. “Chances are he’s fine. A little confused, but fine.” She looked at Paul. “But you know by now we’re very unpredictable creatures. Mess with our brains and you never know what we’ll do.”

Paul was disturbed by this. “I never wanted to hurt him. It was the only way to stop him. To show him he was wrong.”

Mary nodded. “I know. And you can’t hold yourself entirely responsible. The man’s a classic obsessive/compulsive. From what I saw of him, he wasn’t even a very good agent. He was determined and clever, but he was also fixated, and that isn’t how you get the job done. If he’s snapped, it’s his own doing. What you did would have merely been the last straw.”

Mary’s words helped a little, but a pall settled over the family. No one wanted it to end like that. Mary cheered them by promising to call the sheriff up there and see if she could find out what George was up to. She sent them on their way to Chicago with sandwiches and assurances that George was probably fine and “out there annoying people somewhere even as we speak.” As they drove south, their mental self-defense mechanisms went to work and by the time they reached the Loop they were sure George was fine.

******

Abigail ushered the family into her office, and the news she had wasn’t especially good. There was a rise of interest in Paul Forrester, in particular his career after Mount Hawthorne. Somehow word had gotten out that Micklesen, Smith was his law firm, and the offices had logged no less than 30 calls from media people inquiring about Paul and how to get in touch with him. Abigail said most of the calls were requests for comments about the tabloid articles, but the receptionist reported several callers wanted to meet Paul “just to be sure he was the right one.”

“So what do we do?” Paul asked her.

She looked at the three seriously as she paced around behind her desk. “It looks like you have three options. You could run and go underground.”

Paul didn’t understand. “Underground?”

Abigail backtracked. “I mean run. Change your name and hide for the rest of your life. I don’t think that option will work. Paul Forrester was a high-profile kind of person. It would be very hard to disappear with his face.” Paul nodded. “The second option is simply to ignore the whole thing and keep living Paul Forrester’s life. Questions about you wouldn’t be answered, but then suspicions also wouldn’t be confirmed. There would always be a few doubts, but they might go away after a while.”

Paul frowned. Letting this linger didn’t sound good. “What’s the third option?”

She sat at her desk and looked at them intently. “It’s the most difficult one, and it’s a real make-or-break choice. ... Go out there and prove you’re Paul Forrester.”

“How would he do that?” Jenny asked.

“Hold a press conference to talk about the tabloid stories and answer questions.”

The three looked at each other. Choosing was an awful prospect. 

Abigail said, “I’ve already talked this over with Liz Jeffers. She’s gotten together a batch of videotapes and radio interviews for you to study, and she said she’d coach you.”

Paul said to Abigail, “We need to discuss it.”

She stood up. “I understand. When you’re ready, just push this intercom switch,” she indicated a button on her desk phone, “and tell the secretary to page me.” Abigail left the room.

At first no one spoke. Then Paul asked Jenny what she thought. She sighed. “I don’t like any of the choices.” She looked at Scott sadly. “We’ve been underground too long. And ignoring it means we’d live under a microscope for the rest of our lives.” She looked at Paul. “But you’re not Paul Forrester. I don’t know how you could pull it off.”

Scott said, “He fooled Paul Forrester’s mother.” He shrugged. “But she was sick.”

Paul shook his head. “No. She believed because she wanted me to be her son. She wanted him to come home.” He looked at Scott. “What do you think?”

Scott said lightly, “I remember reading once that it’s better to keep your mouth shut and let everyone think you’re an idiot instead of opening your mouth and removing all doubt, but ...” He shrugged, then smiled at his father. “Whatever you want to do, Dad, I’m with you. I think you can pull it off.”

Paul smiled slightly, then grew serious. “Thank you. But we have to think about what will happen if I can’t pull it off. What if I make a mistake and everyone knows I’m not the real Paul Forrester?”

Scott and Jenny looked at each other. Scott offered, “Then we go underground.”

Paul shook his head. “There would be nowhere for me to hide. It would be impossible for me to stay on this planet.”

Scott and Jenny exchanged a surprised look. “Dad, you mean you’d leave?”

“I’d have to.”

The two Haydens contemplated the grim reality of what he was saying. Jenny took Paul’s hand and said earnestly, “I don’t want to lose you twice.”

He smiled at her. “But you’d have Scott with you.”

Jenny smiled wanly at her son, then looked at Paul. “Whatever you want to do,” she said quietly.

Paul turned to his son. “Scott?”

Scott wasn’t as resigned at his mother. “Ms. Spiellman’s whole thing makes it real clear you’re my dad. If everyone finds out you’re an alien, and you’re my dad, that really screws up my life, doesn’t it?” He stood up. “I couldn’t stay here either, but I can’t go back with you. I’m dead meat.”

Paul said, “We’ll tell them you’re Paul Forrester’s son.”

“Yeah, right,” Scott said sarcastically as he paced away. “I can go live happily ever after with the Kendalls.” He went over to the office window and looked down at the street below as confused thoughts raced through his mind. “That won’t work, Dad. I mean, this whole press thing started with me and that story in the National Weekly Whatever.”

Paul said quietly, “People don’t believe those newspapers.”

“But Dad,” Scott said woefully, “everything in the story’s true. Pumped up, but true. If that reporter could find out, other reporters could. There are people all over the country who know the truth about us. Somebody’s going to get offered a lot of money and somebody’s going to tell them who we are. You can leave and go home. I can’t. I’m stuck here.” Scott’s rising desperation became apparent as he searched for a way out. “Dad, how alien am I? If I have, like, blood tests, will it show up?” Paul nodded solemnly. Scott looked around the room, then glanced at Paul. “Could it be explained, like I’m just weird?” Paul shook his head. Scott looked back out the window, awful thoughts hammering away at each other in his head. Trepidation echoed in his voice as he said, “There’s no way I can go with you, is there?”

Paul shook his head. “No.”

Jenny and Paul watched their son wrestle with the inequity of his life. When Scott turned to face them again, Paul recognized his retreat into aloof nonchalance. “Okay, look, Dad, just do what you have to do for yourself, all right? It’s no big deal. I can take care of myself.”

“Scott, the choice has to be unanimous. It has to be what’s best for all of us.”

Forced back out of his bravado, turned away and Scott looked out the window at the unforgiving world he was trapped in. He wouldn’t stand a chance if the truth got out. If it wasn’t the FSA, it would be the tabloids and every nut on the planet after him for something. There would be no place far enough away for him to hide. He took out his sphere and looked at it. This amazing little device, this symbol of his predicament. Why was it when he needed what it represented the most, it was the most useless? He pocketed it and looked back out the window with a sigh. Weren’t Greek tragedies based on this kind of thing? The hero cursed by his birth? He shook the thought out of his head. Orestes he wasn’t. He looked down at the pedestrians on the sidewalk, all those people who could do what he couldn’t, live their own lives as they pleased in peaceful anonymity.

As he began to spiral down into self-pity, a long-forgotten conversation came back to him. He had been about five. Some other child in kindergarten had taunted him about not having _real_ parents, and Eileen Lockhart had sat him down and dried his tears and told him what it meant to be adopted. It meant that he was special, and he had more parents who loved him than most children did. She explained that it was a challenge, but God only gave challenges to people who were strong enough to accept them. These many years later, as Scott looked out at the busy Chicago street, he was no longer so sure that God took such a personal interest in his life, but he knew his choice was clear. This was the biggest challenge of his life. This gamble would pay off with freedom or disaster. Was he going to be strong enough to take this chance? His father had risked so much to come back and stay with him. How much was he willing to risk now for his father?

He turned and looked at his parents. He noticed something around his father, and he looked at him closely. There was something blue shimmering around him. This language of shapes and colors was still new to Scott, but he recognized it as confidence. There was something around his mother as well, but it was harder to see. He took out his sphere and connected with it, looking at her again. Paul saw what his son was doing and nodded. Scott could see it clearly now. Love, concern, trust. Scott put his sphere away. He was the problem here. He had met the enemy again, and it was still him.

He looked at his parents with confidence. “Do it. I know you can do it, Dad. Give it your best shot.”

Paul smiled and nodded, squeezing Jenny’s hand. “All right.” He called the secretary through the intercom and asked her to page Abigail. The lawyer was back in her office within the minute. “I’ll do the press conference,” Paul said.

She smiled. “I think it’s the only way. Liz said she’s gotten together about 6 hours of videotape and two radio interviews, plus there’s all his personal stuff you need to go through with her. Should we aim for next Monday? Late afternoon is best. The closer we are to dinner time and deadlines, the fewer people are likely to show up.”

“That’s almost a week,” Paul said.

“You need all the time you can get to go over the information and memorize it, and then there’s learning how to imitate him.”

“But won’t it look suspicious if it takes me so long to deny the stories?”

Scott said to Abigail, “Dad’s really fast. Give it to him once and he’s got it.”

Abigail regarded them gloomily, not willing to believe that Paul was something other than a clever actor.

“It’s true,” Jenny said with conviction.

Abigail frowned. “Yes, it would look suspicious to wait. It would be better if we could do it tomorrow. But there’s no way.”

“Tomorrow,” Paul said.

Abigail frowned. There was so much to cover, she knew it was impossible. He would have to practice, and work with a video camera to see his progress, and so many other safeguards. “There’s no way. I saw one of Liz’s videotapes. You’re nothing like Paul Forrester. You can’t possibly learn how to be him in 24 hours.”

Paul thought for a moment, then an impish, bona fide Paul Forrester smile spread across his face. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said with a flirtatious audacity. “If you gave me your undivided attention for 24 hours, and we worked together very closely, I bet you could teach me a few things.”

Abigail stared at Paul with disbelief. Only Scott’s chuckle broke her astonished gaze. For just a moment, she had forgotten who was sitting in front of her. This was no mere mimic; he was a true empath. She was reassured when that Forrester grin was replaced by Paul’s quiet smile. “Jesus H. Christ,” she said as she sat back in her chair.

“No,” Paul said with a last devilish Forrester twinkle in his eye, “Paul Edward Forrester.” Scott burst out with a laugh as Jenny chuckled.

Abigail shook her head. “Mister, you are Fish City.”

Scott looked at Abigail with confidence. “He can do it, Ms. Spiellman. He really can. Don’t worry about him. Just make sure the rest of it works.”

Abigail looked at the trio with a growing appreciation that this was no ordinary family. “I’ll call it for tomorrow at four o’clock. Let’s go to work.”

******

The task force set up shop at Liz and Louis’s house. Louis was catching a flight that evening to attend a conference in San Francisco, so he would be absent from the cram session. He was continuing to adjust to Paul being in Liz’s life again, but he wasn’t overly enthusiastic about having Liz’s former lover staying with her while he was away. However, when Louis met Jenny and Scott, the last of his fears were allayed and he welcomed the family into his home.

Jenny was especially eager to meet Liz and thank her for all of her help. “Paul told me about what you did,” she said. “If it hadn’t been for you, he would have gone back, or they would have been caught. And I never would have found them again. I can’t ever repay you for that.”

Liz smiled. “Forget it. We’re even. He taught me how to stay human. And in my line of work, that’s almost impossible.”

Liz set up the VCR and videotapes for Paul in Louis’s den. Scott wanted to sit in, but Jenny pulled him away and told him not to distract his father.

As Liz sorted the tapes, she said, “You’ll be glad to know I’ve taken care of some major problems out there. You may not remember this, but you took some incredibly incriminating pictures on Mount Hawthorne. I got a hold of the roll and cut the post-crash stuff out, and the technician who processed the film is a good friend and I swore him to secrecy. I told him you were delirious after the crash, and with your brains scrambled you decided to see if it was possible to fake your own death and try and get death benefits.” Paul thought it sounded very strange, and she shrugged. “He knew Paul. He bought it. And I called Madelyn Andrews-Carrughers and asked her to keep quiet about how much time you spent with Mark Shermin.”

“What did you tell her?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know.

“I told her you were playing hooky from another assignment, and if people found out how much time you spent there, you’d get into a lot of trouble.”

Paul chewed on this, and Liz smiled at his forlorn expression. “It’s okay. I’m keeping track of all these stories. We won’t get them mixed up.” She turned her attention to the VCR and popped the first tape in the machine. “I begged, borrowed, and stole any tape of Paul I could get my hands on,” she explained as the tape began. “I told everyone I putting together a ‘This is Your Life’ compilation tape for you as a gag gift.”

Liz and Paul watched the television screen as a time-coded video image came on. Paul Forrester was sitting in a chair on a television studio set with a television reporter. “This is the unedited tape of an interview Paul did eight years ago when he was nominated for the Robert Capa Gold Medal. I got the tape from Ken Griffith. He’s the interviewer. Paul knew him slightly.”

On the tape, Ken Griffith went through the sound checks with the technicians and the camera operator practiced his zooms and set points as Paul Forrester sat waiting. He stretched impatiently, made the occasional face at the camera, and he even started a playful strip tease for the camera, flapping open the lapel of his jacket with a come-hither pout and twirling his tie. Liz giggled with embarrassment, but Paul only watched attentively. On the tape, as Ken prepared to begin the interview, Paul Forrester asked him if the interview was going to edited. “I want to make sure all the boring parts are going to be left out,” he said, “like when you’re talking.” He flashed that patented killer Forrester smile and laughed with Ken, and the interview began. Liz watched the tape, then gazed at the rapt Paul beside her, marveling once again at how totally different the two were. Having the new Paul with her made looking at the tape easier. That Forrester fellow could still tug on her heart, the old snake charmer, no matter how dead he was.

On the tape, Ken was asking about the assignment which had netted Paul the Capa Gold Medal nomination. It was his photo coverage of a bloody wave of violence in Northern Ireland, and Liz explained as the tape rolled that he didn’t win the Capa award but he later won his second Pulitzer, this time for Spot News Photography, for the photos. Ken Griffith commented, “This was your first assignment in a long time without your usual partner, reporter Liz Baynes. Was it difficult working solo this time?”

“No, not at all. I’ve done a lot of assignments without her. She’s not my partner. People keep wanting to turn us into a team, but we’re not.”

Ken continued, “But you must admit you’ve done some of your best work with her.”

Forrester laughed. “I wouldn’t call that work ...”

Liz blushed at Paul, who only watched the tape.

On the tape, Ken Griffith asked, “So you and Liz are more than just coworkers?”

“We’re something ...” Forrester shrugged. “She’s ... She’s a lot of fun. She’ll do ‘till something better comes along.” He laughed. “God, you better cut that part out. If she ever hears me say that, I’ll be dead.”

Paul blinked with astonishment as Liz stood and scowled at the TV screen. “If the volcano hadn’t beaten me to it ...” She looked at Paul, who was regarding her with surprise. “Excuse me,” she said pointedly, “I have to take my husband to the airport.” She left, and Paul looked back at the videotape and wondered how that had just happened.

A little later, Scott convinced Jenny he wouldn’t distract Paul, and he joined his father as he was starting up the second videotape. “How’s it going?”

“There have been times when I thought I knew Paul Forrester fairly well,” Paul said, “but when I look at these I realize no one ever knew him.”

Scott appreciated the insight as the video image revealed a local TV news story on Paul Forrester winning his first Pulitzer, the Feature Photography award for his photo essay on hospitalized Vietnam veterans trying to come to grips with their broken bodies and shattered lives. The videotape turned out to be a compilation of television news items about Paul Forrester, covering virtually all of his professional history. The tape ended, to Paul and Scott’s surprise, with coverage from all four national networks of Forrester’s “miraculous” escape from Mount Hawthorne. As Paul had given no interviews when he arrived in Seattle, each of the four stories was supplemented with file footage and a review of Forrester’s daring, brilliant career. As innocuous as the stories were, that final segment lent an eerie feeling of completion to the videotape, showing as it did the end of one Paul Forrester and the beginning of another.

Liz returned from the airport as Paul was finishing up with another compilation tape, which consisted mostly of footage from an abandoned documentary on contemporary photojournalists. She was glad to see he hadn’t watched the last tape. “That one needs a lot of explaining,” she said as she put the cassette in the machine. She looked at Scott, who was settling in to watch it with them. She pointed at the door. “Out.”

Scott didn’t like that idea. “What? Why?”

“This is stuff you don’t need to know about,” she said vaguely.

Scott liked the sound of this. Visions of blue movie material danced in his head. “Hey, no problem. I can handle it.”

She recognized the sparkle in his eye and frowned. “Sorry, Scott, it isn’t that good. It’s just a bunch of personal details that you don’t need to know. ‘Bye.”

She was standing her ground, and Scott knew he couldn’t win this round. He headed slowly for the door. “Maybe I’ll just watch through the keyhole.”

“There isn’t a keyhole,” Liz said.

Scott thought for a moment in the doorway, then smiled impishly. “Maybe I’ll make one.”

Liz smiled but pointed out the door. He left and closed the door behind him. She sat next to Paul on the couch and started up the tape with the remote control. Paul was intrigued by Liz’s actions and now he was curious about what was on the tape. Liz saw his reaction and smiled. “Honest, it’s not that bad. It’s just a lot of names and faces you have to know. The first part’s kind of crazy, but strictly PG.” She hesitated. “Well, PG-13.”

The tape was a home video of a party. Paul leaned forward attentively as the image started in the kitchen of a large hotel suite where several festive people were trying to put together hors d’oeuvres. They shooed off the camera, and it traveled down to the suite’s main room. Liz explained, “This was shot by Art Callahan, a reporter with a St. Louis daily, at a convention in Detroit four years ago. He said he’d just gotten the camera, so a lot of this is pretty bad.” An uproarious party was in full swing in the suite’s main room, complete with drinking, dancing, and loud music. The camera stopped before a party animal putting a few moves on a nubile young woman. The man saw the camera and tried to wave it away with assorted threats. Liz paused the tape on the man’s face. “This is Burt Dovicki. He’s a very good friend of Paul’s. He lives in Chicago. Since the stories started about you, he’s already called me twice about helping you out. He’ll definitely be there at the press conference.” Paul studied Burt’s video image. He looked like a hard-living, energetic cohort. He wondered how many in-jokes Paul Forrester had with Burt that he would be expected to know. He filed the concern away.

On the tape, the camera moved through the party, coming to a stop before a couple dancing with abandon to the loud music. Liz stopped the tape again. “I don’t know who he is, but her name is Mona Weintraub. I think she and Paul had something going at one point. She’s now with a TV station in Milwaukee. She may show up for the press conference.” Liz smiled. “Now watch this. This is amazing.” She pushed the pause button again and the video image moved past the dancers and discovered a couple huddling in a corner at the edge of the party. The man and woman were in their own world and obviously quite interested in each other. They looked up at the intruding camera with surprise, and Liz paused the tape. The man was Paul Forrester, and the woman was unmistakable.

Paul blinked. “It’s the woman who was following us in Flagstaff.”

Liz nodded with a smile. “Yes. I finally remembered her name. Jana Parker. She’s a reporter at the Detroit Post. And I’m sure she’s also the ‘Eugenie St. Clair’ who co-authored those articles about you and Scott in the Midnight Press.”

Paul looked at the image of the two people on the TV screen. Their relationship, either fulfilled or only intended at that point, was apparent. Thank goodness he hadn’t actually looked at her in Flagstaff. Not acknowledging her, even for someone as detached as Paul Forrester, would have been a tremendous blunder.

Liz chuckled ironically. “Her beat is law and ethics. I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned up at the press conference. That actually may work to your advantage. If things start going bad, you can throw her to the bloodthirsty newshounds.”

Paul frowned. He didn’t understand that phrase, but it didn’t sound good.

Liz let the tape roll, and the rest of it was occupied with party buffoonery. The camera captured more dancing and more drinking, and eventually people starting playing to the camera. The high point, if one could call it that, was a sodden and off-color rendition by Paul Forrester and Burt Dovicki of “You Can Mention My Name in Sheboygan.”

Liz spent the remainder of the evening covering the little personal and professional details of Paul’s life. She told him everything she could remember, from Paul getting his first big assignment using a forged letter of introduction to their first story together. They had been sent to the wilds of the Philippine back country to chronicle the work of a botany expedition surveying a section of rain forest before a logging firm cleared the land. The expedition was attacked by communist rebels and most of the party was captured or killed. Paul and Liz had escaped, and she told Paul of their harrowing five—day trek to freedom. She told him how Paul had been so courageous and how she never would have made it out of there without him. “That’s when it started,” she explained wistfully. “I was so scared, and he was so strong and brave. He kept making me laugh. He promised me he’d get me out of there so I’d have the biggest story of my life, and he did it, we got out. I just ...” She sighed. “I’d never met anyone like him. He was so exciting. He was always on the edge.” She smiled. “‘Danger’ was his middle name.” She shook her head. “He was something.”

“A real piece of work,” Paul said.

Liz laughed. “Yes, he was. He lived his life exactly the way he wanted to, damn the consequences. Life was always so simple for him. He didn’t have to deal with those moral dilemmas the rest of us face. He knew what he wanted, he knew how to get it, he got it. He never looked back. He always kept moving forward. I don’t think he was ever afraid in his life. He was like, ‘Well, either I make it, or I get killed. Let’s see how it comes out this time.’ 

“It may sound silly, but he was so wonderfully uncomplicated. He was just there. How you reacted to him was your own business. He didn’t care. He did what he thought was best for him. If it was good for you, great; if it wasn’t, better luck next time. But even when I was the one getting hurt, there was something appealing about that in him.

“No joke intended, but knowing him was like living next to a volcano. It was wonderful and exhilarating, but without warning you could be wiped out. He never lied about being like that. You always knew. But you’d pretend, you didn’t want to look at the bad side. For all his arrogance, and callousness, and everything else, he was so _alive_.” She looked at Paul with chagrin. “I sound like I’m still in love with him, don’t I?”

Paul smiled. “Only his good parts.”

She smiled, then laughed. “And he had some great parts.” Paul didn’t quite know how to react to that one as she laughed some more.

Liz went over everything else she could think of, from Paul Forrester’s catch phrases to his favorite foods to his taste in clothing. At Paul’s request, she told him everything she knew about his friendship with Burt Dovicki, including the few in-jokes she knew about.

Too beat to continue, Liz called for a recess. They wandered out to the kitchen, where Scott and Jenny were watching the late news. The story being broadcast was on the continuing protests by East Germans for political reform. Jenny looked at Liz. “This is amazing. When did all this start happening?”

“It’s been brewing all summer, but things have gone crazy in the last couple days. I guess you’ve missed most of it with everything that’s been going on for you.” The image on the screen changed to an East German opposition leader giving a speech to the assembled multitude, and Liz smiled with recognition. “That’s Helmut. I did an extensive interview with him this summer. I’m sure he never dreamed this would be happening like this. It’s all moving so fast.”

Liz watched the rest of the news story with them, and then with a last bleary-eyed glance at the family, Liz asked Paul if he had any other questions. When he said he had none, she announced she was going to bed. On her way out of the kitchen she muttered something about clean towels in the bathroom and the sofa pulling out into a bed for Scott.

The others went to bed soon after Liz retired, but Jenny couldn’t sleep. In the stillness of the dark guest room, she nestled next to Paul. “How’s it going? Do you think you can do it?”

“I think so.” He sighed thoughtfully. “He was very complex. People either loved him or hated him, and some did both at the same time. There are so many things about him I don’t know. But I think I know enough to let people see the Paul Forrester they knew.”

Jenny was afraid that might not be enough, but she said nothing. 

Jenny and Paul discussed several contingency plans, and they agreed that she and Scott should wait outside the city until after the press conference was over. If Paul didn’t show up by a certain time, they were to take off and keep going. “No matter what happens,” Paul said, “I’ll be all right as long as I know you and Scott are safe.” Jenny didn’t share his calm acceptance, but she kept her doubts to herself. She decided he had other things to think about besides her fears.

Abigail showed up at the house after Liz had left for work and while Paul, Scott, and Jenny were finishing breakfast. Loaded down with video equipment and an armload of books, she bumped her way into the house with a cheerful determination. “Okay,” she said to the confounded trio, “now we’re ready to get this Paul Forrester impersonation letter-perfect.” She deposited her trove in the den and started setting up the video equipment as the three looked on. “I’ve got a video setup with instant playback,” she said, kneeling awkwardly in her suit and heels as she started sorting cables, “and I’ve got about a hundred questions written up so you can practice ad libbing answers.”

Paul looked at the books she had brought in. Most were on acting, but a few were on body language. “What’s all this for?”

“We’re going to practice,” she said.

Paul shook his head. “No, _we’re_ not.”

Abigail was taken aback. “But you have to. How else are we going to make sure you can—”

“I have other things to do today.”

She frowned with annoyance. “What could be more important than this?”

“I have to make sure my family’s safe.”

“Yes, but, this will ensure it will work and you’ll all be safe.”

“And I have a meeting with Liz and Ed Tanney at 11.”

“A meeting? Are you nuts? We’ve got work to do.”

“So does Paul Forrester. I can’t hide until the press conference. I have to live a normal day. And that means a meeting at 11 with my editor.”

She growled with frustration, then eyed him angrily. “Do you want me to help you or not?”

“Yes, but it has to be useful, otherwise it’s not help.”

“This is useful,” she stated, one step short of losing her patience. “You can see how you—”

Paul shook his head. “No.” He looked at her, then smiled knowingly. “Abigail, have you ever trusted anyone?”

“No,” she said flatly. “That’s why I became a lawyer.”

Paul knelt beside her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Thank you, Abigail, for your time, and your effort, and all the thought you’ve put into this. Everything you’ve done has been wonderful. But this is your way. It’s not my way. Many times I’ve seen people who knew inside themselves what was the right thing to do, but they ended up doing what other people told them to do because they didn’t trust themselves. At first I thought that’s how humans are supposed to be. But now I know better. It’s a mistake. I know what’s right for me, and this isn’t it. I’m grateful to you for all the work you’ve done. Like Stephan said, you’re a great lawyer. I just don’t need a lawyer now.”

Abigail’s professional edge melted into a discouraged pout. “I’m afraid. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Since I’ve known you, I’ve kept rereading that book. Everything in it’s changed now that I know you’re real, and ... I just don’t want anything to happen. We need you. Even if no one knows who you are, we need to keep you around. We need to see ourselves the way you see us, so good, and kind, and ...”

Paul smiled at her. “But that’s the way you are. You’ll know that someday.”

She looked forlornly at the video equipment. “I just want to help.”

“I know. And you have helped. More than you think. But now it’s my responsibility.”

She looked at Paul, then at Scott and Jenny. She gazed sadly at the video equipment, then sighed. “Okay. Whatever you need me to do, let me know.”

“Thank you, Abigail. Have you had breakfast? We have eggs, toast, muffins, and cereal.”

“No, I don’t eat breakfast.” She looked at the others, then fixed a look of determination on her face. “But I think I’m going to need it today.”

As Abigail ate, she told them about the arrangements for the press conference. She had reserved a conference room in a hotel near the Micklesen, Smith offices for 4 p.m., and she reported that already a number of people had called the law firm’s office to confirm the place and time.

Abigail said she was going to arrange for tight security, but Paul rejected that idea. “It has to be a regular press conference,” he said, “where people can come and go. It has to be completely normal. Paul Forrester wouldn’t need extra security,” he smiled slightly, “except maybe from angry husbands.”

As she ate, Abigail remembered something and reached for her purse. “Scott, I have a present for you.” She pulled out a folded newspaper page and gave it to him.

“What is it?”

“It’s from the Seattle Tribune. My assistant said it was also in the other Seattle daily.”

Scott unfolded the page and looked at it. His mouth fell open. It was a full-page ad that was an open letter to the press. It read: “We resent in the strongest possible terms the intrusion into our privacy and into the privacy of our friend, Scott Hayden. The fact that certain publications have no respect for the truth and fair reporting is no secret to us; but that they would jeopardize the life of our friend is abhorrent.

“In particular, we take offense to the tactics of deception and manipulation. The reporter who attempted to pass herself as a member of Scott’s family to us should be exposed for what she is: a liar and a cheat. 

“We call upon the responsible members of the news media to revile such dangerous and despicable reportage as has been demonstrated by the National Weekly News and the Midnight Press and to remember how not to blur the line between the public’s right to know and the individual’s right to privacy.

“Scott is in our thoughts and prayers, as he has always been. We love you, Scott. Come home soon.” The letter was signed with several hundred names, including the families of Scott’s friends, all of Scott’s teachers through the years, and countless others Scott knew from his life in Seattle and many he didn’t remember.

Hidden in the list of names was a secret message. Tim Kilpatrick’s name appeared in the section with the rest of his family, but placed innocuously down near the end of the list was a simple “Tasbo Groks.” Anyone else might think it was simply an unusual name, but Scott knew better. He smiled at his father. “Tim Kilpatrick knows.” Paul nodded, and Scott continued to smile, once again astonished that his friends could accept so easily what he himself had not been able to live with for such a long time.

Paul filled Abigail in on the details the family had agreed to. Scott and Jenny were going to wait for Paul at a mall in one of the northwest suburbs. They would have her car, so they could make a quick escape if they had to. As Paul’s car was still in northern Wisconsin, Liz Jeffers had agreed to drop Paul off at the mall if the press conference went well. But Scott and Jenny were under strict orders to leave by 7 p.m. if Paul didn’t show up, or immediately if Liz called them with bad news. If Paul left with them, they were to go to the Haydens’ in Madison to wait out the verdict of the news stories; if Paul didn’t make it, they were to take off and contact Mary in a week’s time to find out what had happened. Just in case things went badly but he could get away to his craft, Liz had booked Paul on a flight to Seattle at 6:45 p.m. Abigail listened to Paul attentively, and both Scott and Jenny noticed that she barely noticed the other two were there. Each privately wondered if Abigail had more than simply a professional concern for her client.

After Paul had finished, Abigail asked, “What happens if things go really wrong and you can’t get on the flight?”

Paul looked at Scott and Jenny significantly. “Then I’m in trouble.”

“... Will you die?” she asked.

“That depends. If I have time, I can detach from his body and leave it. But then I’d have to get to my ship on my own, and that would be very hard.”

“Well,” she said, her logical legal mind always working, “can you go home without your ship?”

“No.”

Abigail tried to sort this out. “There are lots of different levels in between complete success and total failure. Remember that. I mean,” her usually fluid speech suddenly became awkward, “I could find a place for you to hide for a while, and then later if you wanted to you could join up.”

“I know. Thank you. But I’m not willing to risk them,” Paul said, looking at Scott and Jenny.

Abigail glanced at the other two, reluctantly acknowledging their place in Paul’s life. “So,” she said, “it really is do or die.”

“Do, escape, be captured, or die,” he corrected her, “and I can’t really count on escape.”

The lawyer cogitated on that other option. “If they capture you, will you be able to detach from ... your body?”

Paul shook his head. “No.” He smiled slightly. “Those people are smart. The first thing they do is take away my sphere.”

“So,” she said slowly, “it would be the rest of your life in the lab.”

He paused thoughtfully. “If it came to that,” he said quietly, “there would be something I could do.” A chill went through the group, and no one dared ask what that “something” was.

Abigail looked back at the den and the video equipment. “Are you sure you don’t want to practice just once?”

He smiled. “No. But you can give me a ride downtown.”

******

After the breakfast dishes were done and the bags packed, the moment came that no one wanted—it was time to say goodbye again. Abigail had put her books and video equipment in her car, and she was lingering outside to escape the electric air of suspense in the house. No one was speaking much. Everyone was trying hard not to think about the fact that this parting could be forever. When Paul gave Scott his bag to put in Jenny’s car, Scott was about to tell him to keep it when he looked at his father and realized the uselessness of that. If Paul didn’t join them, he wouldn’t be needing his human belongings anymore. “Dad,” he said with as much calm in his voice as he could muster, “is there anything I can do?”

Paul smiled. “If I need you, you’ll know.”

Scott was cheered by this, but before he could let it sink in, it was time to go. The three stood hesitantly by the front door, no one wanting to say the words. 

Scott tried levity. “Dad, are you okay with this lying thing now? I mean, you’re not going to go up there and confess, right?”

Paul almost smiled. “I think I’m learning the difference between telling all of the truth and only the part you want people to know.” He eyed his son with authority. “Not that I want you to use that any more than you have to.”

Scott smiled. “Go for smooth. I know you can do it.” He looked at his father proudly, then smiled as best he could. “You’re a part of me, Dad. Don’t ever forget that.” He hugged his father, then he reached his saturation point. He went out the door and headed for the car without looking back.

As Paul watched him go, it suddenly struck him how unimaginably different everything would have been if he had not known Scott. Scott had been his bridge with life on this strange planet. Scott had made sense of the nonsensical and taught him the unteachable. For three years, Scott had been his guide, his tutor, his friend ... The emptiness in his heart at the thought of never seeing him again was almost unbearable. The pain was tempered only by his knowing that Scott was a better person than he could understand now, and that he would be all right, no matter what happened. He hoped Scott could feel that somehow.

Paul looked at Jenny. He had been concerned about what emotions this moment might stir up in her, but his uncertainty dissolved as he regarded her calm, strong face. Courage was flowing from those lucent eyes. She most of all knew the pain of parting—loved ones had been wrenched from her so many times in her life—but none of it showed now. “You sure are a lot of trouble,” she said with a faint smile. “But I think you’re worth it.” She kissed him, and they embraced. Paul could feel that all of her self-doubts were gone now, banished forever. There could have been no sweeter gift for them to share in that moment. She gave him a tender smile. “See you tonight.” And then she too left, jumping into her car and starting the engine. Paul closed the front door behind him and stood on the step as Jenny’s station wagon pulled out of the driveway and accelerated down the street. The two inside waved goodbye, and the car disappeared. As Paul stood there, he thought he should feel alone, but he didn’t now. They would always be with him, no matter where the three of them went.

Paul looked at Abigail, who stood meekly by her car on the street. She said, “Ready to go?”

He clapped his hands together with that bona fide killer Paul Forrester smile and headed for her car. “Let’s rock and roll.”

******

After giving Abigail a curbside promise that he would be at the hotel conference room at least an hour before the press conference was scheduled to start, Paul headed up to meet with Liz. On the way through the office building’s elevator lobby, he was greeted by several people he didn’t know, and he responded with what he thought would be an appropriately neutral, flashy but empty Paul Forrester greeting. No one seemed bothered by this, and Paul took heart. So far so good.

Liz was happy to see him. “Everything okay?”

Paul nodded. “You still have the mall pay phone number?”

She smiled and patted her jacket pocket. “I never leave home without it.” They sat down as she glanced at her watch. “Ed’s running about 15 minutes late this morning, so we’ve got a little time.”

“Good. I have some questions. I listened to those tapes, and there are some things I don’t understand. I think I understand about the Girl Scouts and merit badges, and putting something ‘in the soup’ is a way of saying developing film, and, is another word for helicopter ‘chopper’?” She nodded. “But what’s a bookie?”

Liz had not listened to the tapes, and their diverse subject matter was making her curious. “A bookie is someone who makes book, like when you want to place a bet on something, the bookie’s an intermediary. Let’s say you wanted to bet on a racehorse. Instead of going down to the track and placing the bet there yourself, you’d call your bookie, and he’d place the bet for you. Then if the horse won, he’d pay you, and if the horse lost, you’d pay him. It’s not really legal, but people do it all the time.”

“So it’s not a bookkeeper.”

She smiled. “No.”

Paul nodded. “Did Paul Forrester have a bookie?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. It makes sense.”

“He also said something about not asking a woman her age. What does that mean?”

“It’s not polite. A lot of women don’t want people to know how old there are.”

“Why not?”

It was a good question, but she didn’t quite know how to answer it. “Well, women don’t want to be thought of as old, because older women aren’t as popular as younger women.”

“Why not?”

Liz looked into those steady blue eyes and saw only curiosity without judgment, and once again she wished more people were like this guy. “A lot of men prefer younger women. It makes them feel younger. And women want to be attractive to men, so they want to be thought of as younger.”

“But even if someone doesn’t know your age, it doesn’t change how old you are,” he said, trying his best to make sense of this.

She contemplated whether she should get into the physiology and psychology of aging, but she decided to punt. “There are a lot of mental games people play with this, and it doesn’t make any sense, but some women simply don’t want other people to know their age.”

“Do you not want other people to know your age?” he asked.

She could tell he wasn’t challenging her, but he had hit a nerve. “I’m perfectly okay with being 37,” she said obliquely, not mentioning that her birthday was in four days and she wasn’t going to own up to being 38 until one second before midnight. Paul could see her gears turning and looked at her curiously. She wanted to change the subject. “Any other questions?”

Paul decided to let it drop. “There’s something Paul Forrester did on those tapes I don’t understand. He’d start to say something, like a word, and then he’d stop himself and say another word just like it, and it sounded like he was making a mistake, but he was saying it on purpose.”

She smiled with recognition. “He did that all the time. It was one of his schticks. You know what a schtick is?” He nodded. “It’s called a Freudian slip. It’s when you say what you really mean, but you didn’t mean to say it.”

Paul wasn’t getting it. “But he did mean to say it.”

“Yes,” Liz said, fumbling for a way to explain it, “but he meant it as a joke. That’s why it was a schtick. Let’s say someone invited you over to dinner, and you didn’t want to go, but you had to go to be polite. You’d say, ‘That sounds terrible—I mean, terrific.’“

Paul regarded her seriously. “That’s a joke.”

She frowned. “Not a very good one. I mean, you’d only say that in front of a friend who knew the truth. I can’t do it very well. Paul was so good at it. Sometimes he could reduce people to tears.” He reacted with alarm. “No, I mean laughing.”

“Oh.” He contemplated that, then filed it away for processing.

“Anything else?”

Paul shook his head. “You said Paul Forrester was uncomplicated, but I think you’re wrong. He’s very difficult.”

She nodded her head to the side. “You can be difficult without being complicated,” she said with an acerbic smile. Paul didn’t understand, and she shook her head. “Never mind. Forget I said it. If you think of anything else, let me know.”

“Thank you,” he said gratefully, and she smiled. For a fleeting moment, Liz was sorry there was a Louis and a Jenny out there waiting for them. But they were out there, and it was time to move on to other matters.

“Word must have traveled fast about this press conference,” she said. “The American Society of News Photographers has forwarded about 15 messages for you, and we’ve gotten a ton of calls from all over the place.” Paul pondered how one could weigh a phone call as Liz indicated a pile of message forms on her desk. “Some I know are cranks, most are just inquiries, but some seem to be people you know. Several want you to call back.” Paul sorted through the messages. “You can use my phone if you want. Just make sure to write down the phone numbers so I can pay for them later.”

There were messages from people Paul wanted to call. “Yes, I would, thank you.”

Liz got up. “Try to keep it short. Ed will be ready anytime.” She left, and Paul shifted to her chair.

Some of the phone calls were better not returned. Joe Connell from San Leon, California had called twice, asking for an exclusive interview in the Courier. Former public defender Charlotte Hart had called from her prestigious law firm, offering her services free of charge. Dr. Katherine Bradford had even called in case Paul wanted her as a character witness; Paul smiled when he saw the added message, “She says the project is going great—and she sends her best.” He put those messages aside, but three calls couldn’t wait until later.

Paul phoned Hal Walker. After they exchanged greetings, the old man said, “I heard what was going on when some reporter asked me what I thought about all this. I just told him something about you getting into all sorts of trouble, and this is nothing new. Is everything all right? How’s Scott?”

“He’s fine. He’s with his mother.”

“Good. ... I just wanted to let you know I think about you two, and I want to help if I can. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do, but call me if you need me.”

“Thank you, Hal, that means a lot. I don’t know if there is anything else you can do, but I’ll let you know.”

“Well, good.” Hal fumbled for comfortable words. “... You really did something very special. I don’t think there is a way I could pay you back. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think Stella would thank you, too. ... She covered it up with anger, but she loved her son very much, and she was really hurt by what he did. She carried that around for a long time. I know now it was really important for her to forgive him before she died. She blamed herself for the way Paul turned out, and when you were here, and being the son she always wanted, she could see she wasn’t a failure after all. I ... I don’t know how to ...” His words trailed off, choked off by emotion.

“Thank you, Hal,” Paul said evenly. “Stella was a good person. I’m glad I knew her. Take care of yourself, and if everything goes all right, we’ll come back and visit you.”

“Good. I’d like that. Good luck.”

The next call found Tom Kendall at his office. “I’m glad you called back, Paul. I’m sure you’re pretty busy right now.”

“I had to call when I got your message about Eric.”

“Yeah, he’s some kid. When all this stuff started hitting the papers, he asked us if it would be all right with us if he helped you out. We were kind of surprised when he said he was willing to go public as your son, if it’s necessary.”

“Is that all right with you and Jo?”

“Well, actually, the idea bothers him more than it does us. He seems to be approaching this as more of a matter of professional courtesy, one photographer to another. You understand.”

Paul smiled. “Of course.”

“It’s great. He’s really come back around since you were here. He’s our son again. We owe you a lot.”

“All I did was what was best for Eric.”

“It was best for all of us,” Tom said in heartfelt tones, then brightened. “He’s studying photography at UCSB now. He’s living in the dorm, you know, to get away, but he’s at the house all the time. He’s a good kid. You’d really be proud of him.”

“You’re a good father,” Paul said.

Paul thought he heard Tom smile. “Thanks.”

Paul’s third phone call went to a familiar address. He recognized Samantha Eppler’s voice as she answered, “Sampson Springs Shelter House.”

“Samantha, it’s Paul Forrester.”

“Paul!” she shouted, then shushed herself. “Thank God you called. I have terrible news. We had a break-in a couple weeks ago, and someone stole your whole case file. I didn’t think it was important until I saw on the news this morning that some people think you’re ... you know. I put everything in your file, and I mean everything. I’m afraid someone’s going to try and use it against you.”

“Yes, I know it was stolen. But it’s all right. I have it now.”

“You do?” She was surprised. “Oh, thank God. I was really worried there. Is everything all right?”

“We’ll see. I have to get through ...” Paul was distracted as the sound of a commotion drifted into Liz’s office from out at the front desk.

“Is something the matter?” Samantha asked.

The ruckus was getting louder. “I don’t know. Thank you, Samantha.”

“Okay, good luck.”

Paul hung up the phone and went towards the office door. He could hear an agitated man’s voice as he argued with the receptionist. “Look, I know he’s around here somewhere, and you can’t stop me.”

Paul recognized the voice and smiled. He stepped out into the hall and saw a number of people, including Liz, emerging from offices along the hallway to investigate the disruption. Liz looked concerned about the matter, but Paul called down to the man dueling with the receptionist. “Jake!”

Jake Lawton looked up and burst into a grin. The hallway echoed with the shared warcry of “Noooooooo prisoners!” and Jake bounded past the receptionist to snare Paul in a bearhug. Liz approached with a faint smile as the two men laughed and sized each other up.

“You look great,” Paul said.

“You look like hell,” Jake said, then laughed.

Liz eyed Jake, then said to Paul, “I take it you know him.”

“Of course,” Paul said with a smile, “he’s my buddy.”

Jake regarded Liz with an appreciative gaze. “And who’s this?”

“Jake Lawton,” Paul said, “this is Liz Baynes Jeffers.”

“Oh,” Jake said as he took Liz’s hand, “so you’re the famous Liz Baynes. I’ve heard all about you.”

She smiled. “Believe me, I’ve heard all your war stories, too. ‘Jake the pen, Paul the lens.’“

Jake laughed, then regarded Liz with an experienced eye. “Well, I can see why Paul traded me in for you. I always said he had the best taste in women in the outfit.” Jake indicated Liz’s wedding ring. “I also see you didn’t wait for him. Smart woman. But I bet you didn’t know you’re the closest this degenerate ever came to settling down.” Liz and Paul shared a knowing smile, and Jake patted Paul roughly on the back, catching him by surprise and almost knocking the wind out of him. “Isn’t that right?”

“Me?” Paul said coyly.

Jake scoffed. “Mr. Innocence. ‘Moi?’“ He laughed. “Paul, where can we talk?”

Paul looked at Liz and indicated her office. She shrugged. “Be my guest. But don’t forget about Ed.”

“No problem.” Paul and Jake disappeared into Liz’s office. “What are you doing in Chicago?” Paul asked as he settled into Liz’s chair.

Jake sat opposite him, setting his attache on the floor next to the desk. “I heard last night that you were in some major hot water, and I booked a seat on the first flight from Phoenix.” He eyed Paul with an amused look. “You mixed up with some extraterrestrial. Ha! If they only knew the truth!” Jake laughed heartily at that, and Paul only cleared his throat. “So where’s your son? Scott, right?”

“Yes. He’s with his mother until this is over.”

Jake nodded. “Smart move.” He flashed a proud grin. “Hey, you’re not the only daddy on the block.” He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and popped it into Paul’s surprised mouth. He laughed and produced a stash of photos as Paul pulled the cigar out of his mouth and put it on the desk. “Seven pounds, 12 ounces,” Jake said as he shuffled photos of an infant in front of Paul. “John Francis Lawton, Junior, born May 3rd. Five months and five days today, and he already weighs almost 20 pounds. What a bruiser!” Paul smiled at the images, especially the ones of Jake, Kathy, and the baby together. “We call him Frank. Sorry you got left out, buddy. I wanted to name him John Paul Lawton, but Kath put her foot down at that. Maybe next time. At least she doesn’t get her hackles up anymore when I mention your name.” He smiled. “Look at him!” he gushed. “He looks just like my old man. I never dreamed it would be this good. I always wanted kids. At first Kath and I were real gung-ho on the idea, we were just waiting until we had more money. And then I don’t know what happened, we lost it somewhere. But after you came to visit, we found it again. Yup, we’re an old mom and dad now. And when we’re both back in shape,” he said, gesturing some mimicked calisthenics, “we’re going for two.”

“Twins!” Paul exclaimed.

Jake almost choked. “Hell, no. I refuse to be outnumbered by anklebiters in my own house. Two kids is enough for us.” He smiled mischievously. “But I do have my other baby, right in here.” He reached down and opened his attaché. Paul watched with alarm, but he was relieved when Jake pulled out not a child but a book. Jake set it on the desk in front of Paul. “Here it is.” It was Jake’s novel. He looked at the volume with solemn appreciation. “I sold it last year. It should be on the shelves in a couple months.” He looked at Paul with gratitude. “I never thought I could do it, Paul. Thanks for making me see it wasn’t a pipe dream.”

Paul smiled at his friend. “You’re welcome.”

Jake laughed. “That’s right, take all the credit. So, when’s the shindig?”

It took Paul a moment to decipher what he meant. “Four.”

“Do you accept gate-crashers, or do I need an invitation?”

Paul smiled knowingly. “I don’t think we could keep you out if we tried.” They laughed.

Liz stepped into the office. “I hate to break this up, but Ed’s ready for us, Paul.”

Jake said to Paul, “Don’t tell me you actually work for a living?”

Paul shrugged. “Don’t let it get out.”

Jake laughed heartily, and Paul left with Liz. She smiled at him as they walked down the hall. “I see we don’t need to worry about Jake.”

Paul beamed. “He’s a lot of fun. I like him.”

The ebullient moment was interrupted when a young editorial assistant appeared out of nowhere. “Howzit, Mr. F?” he exclaimed and grabbed Paul’s right hand, starting an elaborate handshake. Paul was caught offguard and tried his best to follow the young man’s lead, but when Paul wasn’t keeping up the assistant stopped and glared at him. “What’s the matter?”

Paul did his best to cover. “... Sorry. I guess I forgot.”

The young man frowned with disappointment. “You taught it to me.”

Paul tried to go for smooth, but it didn’t work. “It’s been a long time.”

The young man squinted at Paul critically. “It hasn’t been that long.” He eyed Paul with a deep frown, then walked away, annoyed and suspicious. After a moment to unkink, Paul and Liz looked at each other somberly. They walked quietly to Ed Tanney’s office.

Ed was remarkably calm considering the storm that was swirling around the magazine’s offices. As Paul and Liz sat, Ed eyed Paul critically from his usual perch on the edge of his desk. “Forrester, I’ve seen you get into some pretty bizarre situations, but this one wins the cigar in my book.” Paul wondered about that one for a moment, then decided it must be a variation on “takes the cake.” Ed shook his head. “I just happen to be the dumb cluck who’s hired you once too often so people think you work for me. Do you know what kind of zoo this place has been since that first story came out about your kid?” Ed scrutinized Paul. “He is your kid, isn’t he?”

Paul was still subdued after the hallway disaster. “Yes.”

“And you’re willing to admit it in public?”

“Sure.”

Ed smiled slightly and leaned in. “Did he really do any those things in that first story?”

Paul looked at Liz. If he couldn’t get out of this conversation, the press conference would be suicide. He looked at Ed and shrugged. “Of course,” he answered calmly. “I really am an alien from outer space.”

Liz didn’t dare blink as Ed shook his head. “Jesus.” He got up and wandered back to his chair. “Ask a stupid question ...”

Liz started to breathe again and Paul gave her a “How was that?” glance.

Ed said, “Okay, look. I’ve called you just about every name in the book, not to mention a few I wrote in the margins. But you are the best photographer I’ve ever cut a check to. And I appreciate the fact that you’ve started to settle down—” he frowned at Paul “—a little bit. And I also appreciate the fact that you didn’t come crying to me to pay your legal bills this time.” Paul pondered that. Liz hadn’t mentioned it. Liz realized her error of omission, too, and gave Paul a silent apology. Ed was wrestling with his token of friendship. “So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, well, maybe I’ll give you another assignment when this is over.”

Liz blinked at the paltriness of Ed’s magnanimity. “Mighty white of you, boss.”

Ed grumbled, “Well, I don’t need high-profile people working for me. They tend to get in the way. Case in point,” he said, pointing at Paul, “most of his career. And now this. Forrester, I don’t know how you do it. I have never seen one man generate so much trouble in his life.” He thought for a moment. “Except maybe during a war.” He scowled at Paul. “And don’t think about starting one.”

Paul was the picture of innocence. “Haven’t I already?”

Ed didn’t appreciate the joke. “Very funny.” Ed was still chafing at playing the kindly editor. “Anyway, what I’m saying is, just don’t blow it, okay? I’ll have some work for you after things calm down.”

Paul smiled. “Thanks, Ed. I appreciate it.”

Liz offered the acerbic comment, “Ed only appreciates the truckloads of free publicity he’s getting out of all this.”

“Free?” Ed scoffed. “Do you know how much mileage has been put on my staff in the last week? Our receptionist is getting a cauliflower ear from all the phone calls. The wear and tear alone more than makes up for any minor increase in sales that might result.”

Liz knew better. “Yeah, right.”

“So,” Paul said innocently, “I don’t suppose you have any work for me right now.”

“Well,” Ed hedged, “I did have something in mind down the road.”

“How far down the road?” Liz asked.

“... Next month.” It was all Liz could do not to laugh out loud. Ed said to them, “How does Fiji sound?”

Liz couldn’t believe her ears. “Fiji?” She looked at Paul, who wasn’t sure where Fiji was.

“Yeah,” Ed explained, “I wanted to do a piece on how things are going now this long after the coups. The place has still got to be simmering. I want an update. And Horace approved the travel budget.”

Liz’s eyes lit up. “Can Louis go, too?”

Ed shook his head. “You’ll be going there to work, woman. You can’t turn this into a company—paid honeymoon.”

Liz emitted an aloof sigh. “I don’t think Louis would let me go to the South Pacific with Paul for a couple weeks.” She turned to Paul with enthusiasm. “Hey, you could take Jenny, too. It would be great.”

Paul wasn’t sure about the idea. “What about Scott? He needs to stay in school.”

“Stick him with some relatives. You two need to get away.”

It was Ed’s turn not to believe his ears. “Wait, wait, wait, _wait_.” He eyeballed his troublesome photographer. “Who’s Jenny?”

“Scott’s mother,” Paul replied.

Ed needed several moments to absorb that. “Are you telling me you’re actually ...” This wasn’t making sense. Ed knew this had to be a mistake. “You mean, you actually have _a family?_ ”

Paul nodded.

Ed couldn’t handle this. “I don’t believe it!” the editor shrieked. “This is impossible!” Paul reacted with alarm as Ed went to his office door and threw it open. “This can’t be happening!” he shouted into the hallway. Paul looked at Liz, who gave him a reassuring, “don’t worry about it” smile. “Say it ain’t so!” Ed bellowed out into the corridor. He turned suddenly towards Paul. “You’re not actually _married_ , are you?”

Paul shook his head slightly, still a bit off-balance from Ed’s theatrics. “No.”

Ed sighed with relief. “Good, I can handle that. Good.” Paul saw someone walk past the door and give Ed only a passing, amused glance, and Paul began to realize that Ed’s exaggerated outbursts were a regular feature of life in the office. Ed closed the door and headed back for his desk. “I was beginning to think you really were from outer space.” Liz and Paul didn’t react. “Okay. I know Horace won’t pay for spouses and significant others, but maybe he’ll let them go along at their own expense.”

Liz smiled. “You guys are all heart. You done with us?”

Ed fanned himself demonstratively with a paper on his desk. “I don’t think I can take anymore.” Liz stood, and Paul followed her lead. Ed eyed Liz skeptically as she headed for the door. “You’re not actually going to go to that press conference, are you?”

She shrugged. “I can always use a good laugh.”

Liz headed out the door as Paul paused, then turned back to Ed and patted him on the shoulder. “I think you need some rest, Ed. You work too hard.” Ed snarled, and Paul laughed, following Liz out of the office.

Out in the hall, Liz took Paul’s arm and said quietly, “My blood pressure may never recover,” then chuckled.

“I thought I was pretty good,” he said.

She patted his arm. “Keep that attitude.”

They gathered up Jake and went to lunch. Jake was happy to pick up the tab at a neighborhood restaurant’s lounge. Lunch stretched into storyfest, with Jake recounting his favorite adventures with Paul. Paul had heard most of them before, but he was developing an appreciation for the human fondness of enjoying good stories over again.

Savoring Jake’s stories, they lost track of time, and they were startled when the waiter told them it was 3:30 and asked them if they were going to be staying through into Happy Hour. They dashed out and caught a cab for the hotel where the press conference was being held. Abigail was waiting for them in the lobby. She was furious, but Jake gallantly took all the blame before escaping to the safety of the audience seating. Abigail pulled Paul and Liz into a small meeting room and tried to give them a lecture on promptness and the gravity of the situation, but Paul’s innocent response put an end to it: “I was only being Paul Forrester.”

Abigail wasn’t happy with him, but it was too late to undo the damage. “Let’s get down to business. The good news is it looks like there will be less of a turnout than I’d feared. The bad news is the National News Network’s here, and it looks like they may be doing a live feed.”

Paul looked at Liz. “Live feed?”

Liz wasn’t overjoyed by the news. “It means it could be broadcast live all over the country.”

Paul didn’t like the news, either. “Oh.”

“So you see,” Abigail said pointedly, “why I wanted you here on time.”

“But me being here earlier wouldn’t have changed them doing a live feed,” Paul said.

“But you would have known about it sooner,” Abigail stated.

Paul didn’t understand the point. “What difference would that have made?”

The fact that he was making sense only annoyed Abigail all the more. “Never mind.” She gave his outfit a disapproving glance. “What are those?”

Paul looked at his corduroy pants, plaid shirt, cloth tie, and non-matching corduroy jacket. “Clothes.”

“Real Paul Forrester clothes,” Liz added, “taken right out of his closet.”

Abigail frowned at Liz. “Paul and I need to go over some details, if that’s all right with you.”

Liz recognized the tell-tale signs of jealousy over Paul Forrester, and she smiled. “He’s all yours. Except one last thing.”

Abigail acquiesced, and Liz pulled Paul aside for a final detail. At her beckoning he drew close, and she could savor the nearness of this body one last time. But it wasn’t the old torrid anguish again, it was the comfortable closeness of an old friend, and that made her feel even better. She shuddered to think this might be the last time she would ever talk alone with him. “Remember,” she said quietly, “Paul would have handled this in a real ‘in your face’ kind of way. Do you understand what I mean?”

Paul nodded.

“Okay,” she said, then smiled faintly. “So I think this is the final touch.” She produced something from her pocket and pinned it on his lapel. It was a button which read, “Only Visiting This Planet.” He stared at it with surprise, then looked at Liz. She was smiling encouragingly at him. “You’re going to do great, you know that.”

Paul owed her his life, several times over. He wished there were some way he could repay her. “Thank you, Liz.”

“You know the expression ‘break a leg’?”

He nodded, then smiled. “Root hog or die.”

She contemplated that one. She had never heard it used quite that way before. “Yeah, well, I’ll see you out there.”

Liz kissed him on the cheek, and they hugged. As she stepped away to go, Paul held her hands for a moment and said with a deep understanding, “Paul Forrester was a lucky man, but he didn’t know it.” She blinked a few times, then left.

Paul turned back to Abigail, who looked at her watch. “Okay, we’ve only got about 15 minutes. This is the way the press conference is set up. You’ll go out there with me, and I’ll make a few introductory comments about how we’re pursuing legal action against the National Weekly News and the Midnight Press.”

“Are we?” Paul said, looking around the room absently.

“No, but we have to say that and leave the option open. I’m going to introduce you, and then you’ll read this prepared statement.” She handed him several typed pages of stilted denials. Paul frowned, but said nothing, tucking the pages in his jacket pocket. He wandered over to a curtain that covered one wall in the small room, and he found a division in the fabric and pulled it back a bit. The curtain separated the small meeting room from the area where the press conference was to be held, and Paul saw news crews and reporters setting up. He could see about 20 people in all. Paul wasn’t sure if that was a good turnout or not.

Abigail was looking over some papers as she continued her instructions to Paul. “Then I’ll step in again and say you have 10 minutes available for questions. And then you’re on your own. God, I wished we’d practiced, just a little.”

Paul was still looking out at the reporters, and he smiled as he saw Liz and Jake chatting with someone Paul recognized instantly from the videotapes.

Abigail sorted her papers as she spoke. “I want you to keep your answers brief and to the point. Whatever you do, don’t get spontaneous.” She looked up at him, but she gasped with dismay. He was gone. Where he had been standing there was now only a billowing curtain. She went to the division in the curtain and looked out. Paul was walking towards the audience. For a moment she wanted to kill him, but then, finally, she accepted the fact that the part of her client’s defense she could control the least was her client.

As Paul moved through the press conference room towards Liz and Jake, he knew he was doing the right thing. He knew this is what Paul Forrester would have done, and it would probably be his only chance to convince Burt Dovicki that he was the same old Paul.

Armed with the two in-jokes he knew about, he stepped up behind Burt and stuck a finger in his back, mimicking a gun. “Your money or your wife,” he growled.

Burt turned around. Without skipping a beat, he took off his wedding band and handed it to Paul. “Here’re the keys. She gets great mileage, but I’ll warn you, she starts a little cold in the morning, so watch out.” Burt let out a roaring laugh, and he swallowed Paul in a bear hug. “ _¿Hola, Pablo, como esta?_ ”

Paul wasn’t prepared for that. “ _¿Muy bien, compadre, y tu?_ ”

Burt blinked with surprise. “Since when do you speak Spanish?”

Paul tried not to react. “Since when do you?”

Burt let out another leonine laugh. “Thanks a lot! Boy, you look great. It’s been too long.” He elbowed Paul sharply and gestured towards Liz, who stood next to Paul. “You’ve been gone too long from the henhouse, bud, they’re getting away from you!” He laughed again, and Paul rubbed his bruised rib.

Paul gestured vaguely. He hoped Liz would understand. “Oh, she did ‘till something better came along.”

Before she could think, Liz lost her temper gave Paul a swift kick in the shin, and he bent over in surprise and pain. Liz couldn’t believe what she had done, and Burt and Jake laughed. “What’s the matter, Paul,” Jake asked, “got a leg cramp?”

“Yeah,” Burt chuckled, “about a size eight and a half.”

The other reporters who were watching this began to laugh, and Paul feebly acknowledged them. “I think I need to sit down,” he said and hobbled over to a chair.

As he sat, Liz leaned over him and whispered, “Sorry about that, and there’s no live feed,” before walking past.

Paul nodded gratefully and rubbed his shin. Paul Forrester’s colleagues gathered around him with greetings and informal questions. Paul gestured them away. “No, you’re not allowed to talk to me yet. I’m just out here bothering Burt.”

“Hey, Paul,” one photographer asked with a laugh, “where’s your camera?”

“No,” Paul answered, “you’re confused. You’re here to take _my_ picture.”

The photographer laughed and aimed his camera at Paul. Paul pointed at his “Only Visiting This Planet” button and offered a sly, irreverent smile. The photographer clicked away, and several others quickly joined in.

The spontaneous moment ended abruptly as Abigail’s pointed voice came over the public address system. “Since we seem to have started a little early ...” Her scolding tone dampened the liveliness in the room, and everyone headed for their seats.

“Oh-oh,” Jake said to Paul as he sat down quickly, “the Law.”

Paul dutifully limped up onto the room’s dais and stood quietly behind Abigail. Glad to have things somewhat under control, finally, Abigail greeted the reporters and gave them her formal introduction, complete with her threatening legal posturing and promises to seek compensation for her client’s mental and physical suffering resulting from the articles. She introduced Paul as a man “who certainly needs no introduction to members of the press corps. He’s won two Pulitzer Prizes for photography, he is the author of the well-received In the Eye of the Storm, and his insightful and incisive photographs have changed the way people see the world. Ladies and gentlemen, Paul Forrester.”

Paul stepped up to the podium and Abigail moved to the side, crossing her fingers. As Paul adjusted the microphone up to the right height, he said, “She forgot to mention that I was nominated for the Capa Gold Medal, I was a finalist for the Wire Service Photojournalist of the Year—twice—and I got an honorary merit badge in photography.” There were a couple chuckles from the group.

“You were never a Boy Scout,” someone in the back said. There were more chuckles.

“Who said anything about Boy Scouts?” Paul responded with a frown. “My school’s Girl Scout troop gave me a merit badge for meritorious work in the darkroom.”

More laughter.

Paul was ready to lean on the podium and field questions when Abigail caught his attention. She was gesturing impatiently at his pocket and whispering, “Read it, read the statement.”

He frowned at her pointedly. “This?” He took out the pages she had given him. “I can’t read this to them. Their lives are bad enough.” He handed the pages to her as she stepped back, fuming. Only later would she realize he was playing to his audience.

Paul looked at the reporters. “So what do you want to know before Happy Hour starts?”

A reporter in front asked, “Paul, are you an alien from outer space?”

He smiled casually. “I’m sorry, I can’t answer that right now. It depends on how much money there is in being an alien. If there’s more money in that than in being a photographer, sure, why not?” There were some chuckles. “I have to talk this over with my lawyer and my bookie—I mean, my bookkeeper,” he said with a sly, knowing smile, to some laughter, and Liz smiled proudly. “I’ll let you know when we decide.”

“How much are you going to sue the National Weekly News and Midnight Press for?” another reporter asked.

“Again,” Paul replied, “we have to see if there’s more money in suing them or proving them right, so I don’t know.”

“How much of the two stories are true?” a third reporter asked.

Paul frowned with thought. “That’s a tough one. The Weekly News story would make a great novel, and the Midnight Press article is all speculation. I’m not going to comment on that one at this time.”

In the corner, Abigail nodded with approval. He had played that one just right.

A reporter who wasn’t as jovial as the others asked, “Is Scott Hayden really your son?”

Paul nodded. “Yes.”

The reporter asked, “How many other children do you have?”

Paul smiled. “Never ask a woman her age, and never ask a bachelor how many children he has.”

While others laughed, the dour reporter stayed on track. “But you admit that Scott Hayden is your son.”

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t you identified as his father on his birth certificate?” the reporter asked.

“I’m not?” Paul said, trying not to skip a beat. “Oh. Well, I guess at the time it wouldn’t have done any good. I wouldn’t have made much of a father.”

The reporter continued, “Did you know Jennifer Hayden was pregnant?” Paul regarded him seriously. This man was beginning to worry him. “Did she ever try to contact you for child support or anything else?”

“I think that’s getting a bit personal,” Paul said and looked away for another question from someone else.

But the dour reporter would not be turned away so easily. “Can you explain certain facts in this story?” he asked, holding up the issue of the National Weekly News with Scott on the cover.

Paul frowned skeptically. “Do you actually read those things?” He glanced around the group as several people smiled, and he spotted Jana Parker sitting quietly at the edge of the group. Paul also noticed several latecomers had come in and were taking chairs.

The dour reporter was staying with it. “There are some interesting incidents reported in the story which have been independently confirmed.” He held up the tabloid. “It states that Scott Hayden revived someone who had been in a coma for six months. We’ve found three people who can confirm that story.”

Liz sank back into her chair. The fun was over. Now it was time to hang on and pray.

“Don’t work on this too hard, folks,” Paul said, trying to shake off the reporter. “The room’s beginning to fill up with smoke.”

The dour reporter stayed with it. “Did your son revive someone who had been in a coma for six months?”

Paul looked at the reporter evenly. It was now time to pick out the truths he wanted to reveal. “Yes, he did,” he replied. “It was his friend. He had a special connection with him, and he could reach him.”

“He could reach him when his family couldn’t?” the reporter responded skeptically.

“Sure. Friends are less complicated than family. For instance,” he said and pointed towards Burt, “if Burt Dovicki were in a coma—I know he often looks like he’s in one, but he isn’t—” Burt laughed heartily at that “—chances are I would have better luck getting him out of it than, say, his first wife. But then, chances are his first wife would have been the one who put him in the coma.” Burt roared with laughter, and that brought out some other laughs from the group. Paul saw two other people slip through the doorway into the conference room.

The dour reporter smiled but wouldn’t let go. “According to a story printed in the Seattle Tribune in August 1986, Scott Hayden walked away from a car crash that killed the other occupants of the car ‘bathed in an eerie blue light.’ Can you explain that?”

Paul smiled slightly. “Must be his magnetic personality.” He shrugged. “I was told the witness had three sheets to the wind, and maybe even only two or one, so that might explain it.”

The reporter tried again. “How about the incident in Madison, Wisconsin, in which Scott allegedly stopped a police speedboat with ‘a strange blue light’?”

Paul shrugged casually. “Was that Scott? I don’t know anything about that.” Paul was beginning to become uncomfortable, and he didn’t notice one last person who slipped into the room and stood silently by the door.

Paul was grateful when another reporter picked up the questions—right up until he asked his first question. “What happened on Mount Hawthorne?”

“I fell out of a helicopter.”

“How come you weren’t killed?” the second reporter asked.

“Because I didn’t fall very far out of the helicopter.”

“But how could that have happened?” the second reporter asked. “Why weren’t you even injured? That’s almost impossible to believe, even for someone as lucky as you. Would it have something to do with a number of reports that you’ve changed radically since this accident three years ago?”

An expectant stillness fell over the room, and Paul was beginning to regret his decision to do this press conference. He recalled the helicopter crash site as he had discovered it and pieced together his reply. He said quietly, “Imagine you’re in a helicopter about 500 feet above an erupting volcano, and you’re hanging out the open window in a harness, and suddenly the chopper loses altitude. You’ve got about five seconds to wonder how many pieces you’re going to be found in, and the chopper smacks into the top of a bunch of pine trees, and the harness snaps, and you fall out onto a bed of pine needles and volcanic ash, and the helicopter smashes on a boulder in the trees. You’re lying there, with the roar of the volcano in your ears, and you know you must be dead, because you can’t breathe and you can’t move, and there’s no way you could have survived, but then you start breathing again, and you are alive. Has anyone here ever gone through that?” he asked, holding up his hand for a show of hands. No one responded, and he nodded. “If you haven’t gone through that, then you can’t really understand what happened.” Liz smiled with appreciation, and Jake nodded, grateful that his friend had come out of that nightmare alive.

“But you’ve been in tight spots before,” the now-subdued second persistent reporter commented, “and it hasn’t really changed your style.”

“Yes, but in those I could run away or fight back. This was very different.”

The dour reporter who started the serious questions was ready with his second salvo. “Did you have anything to do with writing _Conversations with a Starman?_ ”

Paul shook his head. “No. The first I ever heard of the book was when I saw it in a store.”

“Do you know Mark Shermin?”

“I met him.”

“Do you know him well?”

“Not well.”

Liz shifted in her chair. She was getting decidedly uneasy, and she looked at Abigail. The high-powered lawyer was watching Paul from the shadows off to the side, biting her lip and looking very much like a frightened child. The image unsettled Liz all the more, and she looked away.

The dour reporter commented, “You seem to have spent a long time out there with him.”

Paul shook his head. “Not long. A couple days. I was there for a seminar, or something.”

“Paul,” another reporter said, “why was the Federal Security Agency looking for you?”

Paul camouflaged the shudder in his knees by shifting to face this new interrogator. “That’s a real good question,” he said, not sure how he was going to answer it. “Um, I think they thought what some of you think,” he said, then let slip a mischievous smile. “I don’t know. Maybe it has to do with a parking ticket I got once in Washington.”

This new reporter said, “Both your name and you son’s name were flagged on the national computer networks.”

“Makes sense,” Paul said, trying to look casual and disinterested. “We were together.”

The reporter continued, “The agent who was in charge of finding you once worked closely with Mark Shermin, and there’s been some speculation that he staged this in collusion with Shermin to generate more interest in the book. Do you have any comment on that?”

Paul shook his head firmly. “No. I don’t believe that.”

“Did you ever meet this George Fox?”

“Yes.”

“How come he never caught you?”

“He tried,” Paul said, then tried a casual Paul Forrester smile that he wasn’t sure worked.

“Why didn’t he succeed?” the reporter asked.

“I’m good,” Paul said, hoping his words had that Forrester panache. “If I don’t want to get caught, I don’t get caught.” He almost smiled. “Just ask Liz.”

Liz laughed nervously in spite of herself, but the room had too much energy to let her laughter spread to the others.

Another reporter picked up the line of questioning. “But if this guy thought you were an alien, and he didn’t figure out you weren’t and he didn’t catch you in three years, was he a total incompetent or what?”

Paul shook his head. “No,” he said in deliberate, thoughtful tones. “George Fox is a very resourceful and dedicated person who did the best he could, given the information and support he had.”

Another reporter asked, “Why didn’t you just let him catch you so he could find out you weren’t an alien and you could get on with your life?”

“He wasn’t the focus of my life. I had other things to do. He’d show up once in a while, and I didn’t want to bother. Besides,” he said, trying to sound coy, “I’m not sure I paid that parking ticket.”

“Paul,” a woman’s voice said off to the side. Paul looked and saw Jana Parker stand up. He smiled at her knowingly, and she tried not to blush. “How did you find out about Scott Hayden, and why did you start traveling with him?”

Paul had no idea how to answer that. “Well, he contacted me, actually.”

“So he knew you were his father, despite your name not being on his birth certificate,” she said.

“Yes. His mother told him at some point.”

“But why did you take him with you?” she asked.

Paul was becoming tired, but he gathered his strength as best he could. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe Liz was right, maybe I did have brain damage.” He glanced at her, but each was too tense to smile. “He was in some boys’ home, and I couldn’t leave him there.”

“But you took him out of there without permission,” Jana said.

“Well, they wouldn’t have given him to me. I couldn’t prove I’m his father.”

“But you’re sure he’s your son,” she said.

“Yes.”

Jana asked, “How can you tell?”

Paul smiled. “His talent for getting into trouble.”

“Basically,” Jana said with a professional edge in her voice, “you’re confirming everything that was in the story published in the Midnight Press. Are you willing to say that that story is an accurate representation of the truth?”

Paul gazed at Jana wearily, and he now understood Liz’s advice to him about throwing her to the newshounds. But he couldn’t do it. However, he was quite willing to let her know that he could do it if he wanted to. He said to her in a knowing, precise intonation, “I’m not going to comment on the article simply because of what the paper is and what it represents. Of course, Jana, you with your background in the field understand this better than most people here.” She blanched and stared at him, waiting for the ax to fall. He only looked at her, then smiled slightly and looked away. She sat down heavily and gathered herself, glancing around to make sure no one was looking at her.

A wizened reporter who reminded Paul of Kevin McMahon stood up next to Jana and said with the irony-laced ennui of a career journalist, “Paul, this is all very reminiscent of the flap that arose during the press conference after you won your second Pulitzer. Any observations?”

Paul looked at him blankly. “What?”

Liz’s heart plummeted. Oh, God, no! She had forgotten to tell him about that! A nasty ethical row developed over whether Paul Forrester’s continued presence with the Belfast family he was photographing had encouraged them to confront the British soldiers when they might not have done so otherwise. The controversy had cost Paul the Capa Gold Medal for which he had been nominated before the mess began.

Liz dared not breathe as Paul continued to gaze at the wizened reporter without responding. The reporter frowned. “Surely you remember.”

Paul shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

Liz fought the urge to jump up and do something stupid.

The reporter frowned even deeper as the other members of the press looked at Paul intently. The reporter commented acerbically, “You have no memory of this?”

“No.” Paul looked at the reporter evenly, pausing just long enough to make his point. “I had this accident in the hallway later that sort of erased my memory of the whole day.”

After a breathless moment in the silent room, Burt Dovicki burst out in roaring laughter. A couple other reporters who knew the story also began to laugh, and those who didn’t know pestered those who did for an explanation. Paul was still gazing at the wizened reporter and began to smile, and the man shook his head with a chuckle and sat down. Liz sent up a silent “thank you” and brushed a tear of relief from her eye.

The tense mood of the meeting was broken. Everyone knew, without a doubt, who was standing at that podium. Burt continued to laugh out of control, and he eventually fell off his chair. Jake and Liz debated helping him back up, but they decided to leave him on the floor until he came to himself. Paul frowned at Burt’s continued amusement. “Thanks a lot, Burt. What a pal.” Burt tried to speak, but he couldn’t stop laughing. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he looked at his old friend, totally helpless. Paul smiled. Liz had said “reducing someone to tears”; he understood it now.

At last Burt got himself under control and back into his chair, and the press conference continued. But the uncertainty was gone, and the meeting was now a jovial chat between friends. Someone behind Liz asked, “So, Paul, now that Liz has gotten married, are you thinking about settling down?” Liz turned around and smirked with disapproval at her colleague, who smiled at her impishly.

Paul said firmly, “Maybe.”

The man behind Liz asked, “Is there a woman out there who can make you tow the line?”

Paul smiled. “Yes.” That Forrester mischief sparkled in his eyes. “And if you ever meet her,” he said emphatically, “please don’t tell her where I am.” The group laughed.

As a few people starting packing up to leave, a reporter in the back asked, “Are you going to sue the federal government for harassment?”

“No.” Paul glanced at Abigail. “But don’t tell my lawyer that.”

The reporter continued, “What do you think they ought to do with that FSA agent who chased you all that time?”

Paul shrugged. “I think they ought to give him his job back.”

Liz blinked with surprise, and the reporter in the back was caught off-guard. “Really?”

“Sure. He was just doing his job.”

The reporter contemplated that, and Abigail saw her chance to wrap things up. She shooed Paul aside and took over the podium. “I want to thank you all for coming. Please leave your business cards with my assistant in back if you wish to be contacted ...”

Abigail continued her post-conference instructions, but no one was particularly listening, including Paul. Finally able to relax, Paul looked at Liz, who gave him a congratulatory nod, and Jake, who gave him a hearty thumbs-up.

But now that he wasn’t so preoccupied, Paul could feel that something was wrong, something that had been wrong for a long time and he hadn’t noticed, and he suddenly felt uneasy. He could feel someone ... Paul looked towards the exit.

Standing silently beside the door was George Fox, gazing at Paul with those piercing, fiery eyes.

The two looked at each other for several moments. Paul had no idea how long George had been there. He did know that one word from this man to the reporters who were packing up could undo everything that had just happened. But he was glad to see George was alive, and without thinking about it, he smiled at him.

George peered at Paul for another long moment, then he looked at the reporters. There were so many weapons at his disposal, taking Paul apart would be child’s play. Ask him to give a blood sample. Ask him to show Paul Forrester’s Vietnam scars or appendectomy scar. For Christ’s sake, all he had to do was tell the reporters to look in his mouth and see there wasn’t a single filling in those cloned teeth. How pathetically easy.

George gave the reporters one last glance, then he looked back at Paul. They regarded each other, and Paul noticed that the fierceness in George’s eyes was waning. Another several moments went by, and then George turned slowly and left.

Paul let out a deep sigh of release. Liz and Jake appeared before him. Paul stepped off the dais as Jake shook his hand. “Paul, you looked great up there. But you didn’t mention my book.”

Paul shook his head with a relaxed smile. “I knew there was something I’d forgotten.”

Burt was grinning ear-to-ear as he took Paul’s hand. “‘I had this little accident!’“ He laughed again. “I thought I was going to die.”

“So did I,” Paul replied cryptically. “But I’m glad it’s over.”

“It’s not over yet,” Liz said to Paul meaningfully. “It’ll be over when their stories are printed and broadcast. Then we’ll know if it’s over.”

Paul understood what she was saying as Jake scoffed. “What’s to worry about? You showed them!”

A young woman Paul recognized from Liz’s office approached the group tentatively. “Liz? Ed sent me to get you. He said there’s something on TV he knows you’ll want to see.”

Liz indicated Paul. “I have to give Paul a ride.”

Jake said, “Hey, I’ve got a rental. I can drop him off for you.”

Liz looked at Paul, who nodded, and then she looked at the young woman. The woman said, “Ed said it’s important.”

Liz shrugged. “Okay.”

Liz and Paul exchanged a secret smile and hugged. The hug went on a bit longer than “just a hug,” and Burt frowned and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Baynes, aren’t you married or something? Jees! Get some class!”

Liz laughed and let go of Paul. “Burt, from you, those words are gems.” Burt laughed loudly at that. She said to Paul, “Say hello to everyone for me.”

“I will.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know how it goes.”

He nodded, then smiled. “Goodbye, Lizbaynes.”

She smiled. “Goodbye, Paul Edward Forrester.” He took the “Only Visiting This Planet” button from his jacket and pinned it on her blazer lapel. She patted it and smiled at him, then turned and left with the young woman.

“Hey, bucko,” Burt said, shaking Paul by the hand again roughly, “I gotta go. Great seeing you again. God, it’s been too long. But you know how it goes. Emmie keeps me on a pretty tight leash. Here’s our number,” he said, handing Paul his card with a phone number written on the back. “Give us a call when you’re in town. God, it’s great to see you. Just like old times.”

“Take care of yourself, Burt,” Paul said as Burt headed for the door. “Be careful in those hallways.”

“Yeah, right!” Burt roared again as he went through the door.

Jake frowned at his friend. “What the hell happened in that hallway?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Abigail appeared beside Paul and put her arm through her client’s arm with a solicitous smile. “How do you feel?”

He sighed tiredly. “Good.”

“Up for company?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s someone up in my office who’d like to talk with you.”

Paul wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “Who is it?”

“He told my assistant to tell you that he hoped he was being at his best now that things are at their worst.”

Paul smiled and looked at his watch. There was time to talk with Mark Shermin. “Yes.”

Paul, Jake, and Abigail headed out of the room, but a young Micklesen, Smith assistant who had been standing by the door with a cellular phone stopped them. “Mr. Forrester?” he said. “There was a man who was at the press conference who had a message for you.” He took out a piece of paper and consulted it. “He told me to write it down so I got it right. He said he knows you tricked him with the gun.” The clerk glanced up at Paul as Jake and Abigail looked at him seriously. “And he said he knows now what you meant about doing something, or not doing something, because it was the right thing to do.” Paul smiled quietly and nodded. The clerk said, “He said you’d know what it meant.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Jake and Abigail wanted an explanation, but Paul offered none, and they left the hotel.

Jake stayed in the law office’s waiting room as Paul met with Mark Shermin in Abigail’s office. “I guess I was a little late,” the physicist said as he rose to greet Paul.

“Better late than never,” Paul said.

“I don’t know about that.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe what an idiot I was. I was scared, and my lawyer—my former lawyer—convinced me the only way I could save myself was to let you take the rap if it came to that. I thought when you didn’t write back that you agreed to it. I never thought this would happen. But when I heard on the radio the other day that some people thought you were mixed up in this, I finally developed a backbone and decided to do the right thing.” Paul smiled at the appropriateness of his comment. Mark indicated a cellular phone sitting on the desk. “I heard the press conference from up here. One of the law firm’s people had a cellular phone down there, and I listened in. If things got bad, I was going to come down and tell everyone that the whole thing was my fault and I’d set you up because you fit the type. I was on my way to the elevator when you made that comment about the hallway.” He frowned curiously at Paul. “What was that all about?”

Paul shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Did it happen to you or Paul Forrester?”

“Paul Forrester.”

“How did you know about it?”

Paul looked at Mark with his own version of the old Forrester panache. “I’m good.”

Mark wasn’t through with his self-chastisement. “Anyway, I’m really sorry I got you into this mess, and I probably can’t make it up to you, but, well, anyway, ...”

He handed Paul a savings passbook. Paul noticed absently that Jenny’s name was on the cover, and he opened the book and saw that a six-figure total had accrued. “What is this?”

“Half my royalties from the book.”

Paul looked at the passbook’s cover. “Why does this have Jenny’s name on it?”

“Well, I couldn’t very well put your name on it. I knew her from chasing her 18 years ago. People can think it’s guilt money for that.”

It took a moment to sink in, and then Paul looked at Mark with astonishment. “You’re giving this to us?”

“Take it. I’ll feel a lot better.”

“But it’s almost $250,000.”

“Believe me, I know. And the royalties are still coming in. It’s tapering off, though. Now my publishers want me to do another book.” Mark glanced at Paul to see his reaction. Paul was justifiably unhappy at the news. Mark smiled. “No, it’s not what you think. I’m writing a novel. One of the English faculty members is going to help me with it.” He shrugged with appreciation. “The novel was her idea, in fact. She finally convinced me that a novel’s more appropriate for what I know. Besides, there’s a lot more money in science fiction than there is in science fact. I may quit teaching if this works out.”

Paul indicated the bank book. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Mark nodded. “I owe you a lot more. It’s the least I can do. I’ve had a chance to be something very few physicists ever get to be—a notorious celebrity.” He smiled, then grew thoughtful. “Too bad about George Fox, though. Hoist on his own petard, I guess.”

“He’ll be all right,” Paul said quietly.

Mark looked at Paul with reluctant acceptance. “So, you’re just going to be one of us now?”

“I hope so.” Paul thought this was a good future, but Mark didn’t and his disappointment was clear. This puzzled Paul. “What’s wrong with that?”

“There’s so much we can learn from you,” Mark said, betraying his eagerness.

“Like what?”

“Well, like, how you harnessed the energy to travel great distances in space, and how we can use genetic manipulation to create better and more productive plants and animals, and there are at least a dozen applications for how you cloaked your space ship from detection. There are so many things, I don’t ...” He smiled knowingly. “I don’t know where to begin. The potential for improving our lives is incalculable. And it’s all going to be lost if you just ... blend in.”

Paul smiled. “Humans are an interesting species. You’re clever, and you’re curious, and you never stop trying. But you learn how to do things before you understand what it is you’re really doing.” He shook his head without judgment. “No. Technology isn’t the answer. Faster cars and bigger guns don’t make better people. Your future isn’t here,” Paul said, lightly tapping his friend’s forehead. “It’s here,” he said as he tapped Mark’s chest over his heart.

Mark appreciated the beauty of the message, although he didn’t fully comprehend it. “Yeah, well, some of us don’t have a lot of choice. I live up here,” he said as he touched his head.

Paul said brightly, “If that’s where you live, maybe you can take a vacation from there once in a while.” He smiled, and Mark laughed.

Paul’s time was short, so he bid Mark farewell and went out to find Abigail going over some papers in the law firm’s conference room. “So,” she said, trying to keep her emotions to herself as she got up, “this is it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You’ve got a ride to the mall?”

“Yes,” he said, “Jake’s waiting out front.”

She nodded, then sighed deeply in spite of herself. “Well, take care of yourself.”

He nodded. “I will.”

She frowned at him playfully. “Stay out of trouble.”

“I’ll try.”

“And if you do get into trouble,” she said, trying hard to sound casual, “give me a call.”

He smiled slightly. “You’re the first one on my list.”

She gestured vaguely. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I guess I really didn’t think you could do it. I guess I need to learn to lighten up a little.”

He smiled at her with a deep appreciation. “I think you’re already lightening up.”

She smiled at him wistfully. Then, after a moment of uncertainty, she gave Paul a heartfelt hug. But her controlled instincts kicked in, and she backed away and tried to regain her professional edge as she covered with an embarrassed gesture. “Well, goodbye.”

He smiled and stepped up to her. To her surprise and secret joy, he kissed her lightly. “Goodbye, Abigail. Thank you for everything.” He turned and left the room, and after a moment, she giggled with delight.

Paul joined Jake in the waiting room. “Let’s go.”

As Jake stood to go with him, he looked around at the posh setting and blew out an impressed sigh. “This is pretty fancy stuff. I hope you can afford these people.”

Paul looked at him skeptically. “You think I’m paying?” He laughed a Forrester chuckle.

“Then who is?”

“A friend.”

Jake was having trouble swallowing that one. “What kind of friend?”

“A rich one.”

Jake laughed. “They’re the best kind to have.”

They laughed together, and they passed through the doors.

Rush hour was winding down, so Jake and Paul made the trip to the northwest mall in good time. They joked and talked on the way, and Jake extracted a promise from Paul to visit the next time he was “within a thousand miles” of Phoenix.

When Jake turned the car in the mall’s parking lot, he asked, “Where’s your car?”

“No, you can drop me off by that door,” Paul said, indicating the mall’s main entrance.

Jake looked at the building curiously, then got it. “Oh, meeting somebody. Who?”

Paul saw no reason to fudge now. “Scott. And his mother.”

Jake looked at his friend with surprise. “You faker!” Paul didn’t respond well to that, but Jake only laughed. “How long has this been going on?”

“Not long.”

“So, are you actually going to tie the knot?”

“I hope so. She didn’t say yes when I talked about it last time.”

Jake nodded with approval. “That’s a good sign for a woman getting involved with someone like you. How about that, you getting married.” He smiled. “You know, Paul, I’m glad. I used to like the idea of you staying the same. It was like you could be that way for both of us. But I’m glad now.” He gave Paul a discerning glance. “You know, I was kind of surprised to see you make it to 40.”

Paul smiled and said with a self-conscious stiffness, “My species lives thousands of Earth years.”

Jake scoffed knowingly. “Your species lives fast, dies young, and ends up a scorch mark on the side of the road. So, do I get to meet her?” Paul hesitated, and Jake nodded. “Never mind. I understand. When you come to Phoenix. Say hello to them for me.” They exchanged a heartfelt goodbye, and Paul went into the mall.

******

It had been a long, tough day for Jenny and Scott, and they sat at a table in the mall’s center court with little strength left to spare. They had been in the mall since 2 p.m., pretending to shop and trying not to draw attention to themselves. Scott had bought a personal stereo to listen to the radio news, but the mall lighting blocked out all but two local rock stations. At 4 p.m. and 5 p.m., he had wandered outside to scan the radio stations to catch the news updates. It was hard for him to concentrate, and he was startled after the first newscast to realize he had listened to 10 minutes of news and he couldn’t recall a single word the newscaster had said. He was pretty sure he would have reacted if he had heard the name Paul Forrester mentioned, but he also knew his nerves were taking a beating and he couldn’t take anything for granted. He turned to the all-news station and clamped down on his brain to make sure he would hear his father’s name if it was spoken during the local newscast. But he didn’t hear it, and he hoped that was a good sign.

Jenny and Scott had been sitting within hearing distance of the designated pay phone for more than an hour, and they were finding it increasingly difficult to look like they belonged where they were. The tables were filling up with evening shoppers catching dinner, and Jenny was getting nervous that they were sticking out. But Scott maintained a surface composure that reassured her that they were all right.

Jenny glanced at her watch. She had done this so many times in the last hours that she now saw only the face with hands creeping around at a steady pace. She had to work at it to decipher the meaning of their position. “Less than an hour,” she said quietly.

Scott said firmly, “Mom, it’s okay. He’s going to be here.”

She smiled slightly at her son. “You and he get along, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” He smiled, remembering some of the early, awkward moments. “He makes me nuts sometimes, but yeah, he’s a good guy.”

“Is he a good dad?”

Scott pondered that question for a moment. It almost seemed like a non sequitur. “He’s not real traditional.” Scott didn’t know how else to describe their relationship, but he knew how he felt. “He’s a great dad.” Scott watched his mother ruminate on that, and an unsettling thought occurred to him for the first time. “... Do you like him?”

She looked at Scott thoughtfully. “When he was here the first time,” she said quietly so no one could overhear, “I thought I felt about him the way I did because he was so much like Scott. It was like a dream, it wasn’t real. And then when I found out I really was pregnant, I was confused. I’d always wanted to have a child with Scott, and I was grateful he’d given me that chance, but I was never going to see them again, either of them. That was hard. Then everything happened with Fox, and I had to give you up, and there were times I think I hated him. I mean, why me? I really wanted to have you, but sometimes I used to think it would have been better if I hadn’t had you instead of having you and then losing you.”

She smiled gently. “But then I’d remember things about him, how kind he was, in his own way, not the way Scott was.” She smiled, then almost laughed. “I remember he said once, ‘I think I am becoming a Planet Earth person.’“ Scott smiled. “I don’t know, there was something about the way he said it. I think that’s when I fell in love with him.” Her fond memory faded into melancholy. “I used to hold on to that, when things were bad.” She looked at her son with sad eyes. “Does that sound stupid?”

Scott of all people knew what she was saying, and he was beginning to appreciate just how awful this had been for her. He had never understood how much courage she had needed to get through this, how much strength it had taken her to live her life. He smiled at her with welling admiration. “No.”

She smiled at him and took his hand on the table, and they regarded each other with renewed gratitude at being together.

Suddenly Scott’s face fell. Something was happening, but he didn’t know what. His heart sank at the weird, unexplainable feeling, and Jenny reacted with alarm at his expression. Scott had the eerie feeling that something was happening behind him, something ...

He turned and saw Paul come into sight through the shoppers. Jenny and Scott abandoned their vigil and greeted him with a hug. They disappeared together into the bustle of shoppers.

Paul told them how the press conference had gone and about his visitors—he left out the part about Mark Shermin’s gift—as they led the way to the car. “Oh,” he said as Jenny unlocked the front passenger door for him, “and George Fox is alive.” Jenny and Scott reacted with concern, but he only said with a quiet smile, “It’s okay.” Scott heaved a sigh as Jenny gave Paul a relieved hug and got in behind the wheel.

They headed northwest into light evening traffic on the tollway. “We have to keep in mind that it’s not over yet,” Paul cautioned as they moved down the highway. “Liz will let us know tomorrow how things are going. But, if everything goes the way I think it did, Scott, where do you want to live?”

Scott began to grin at the strange and wonderful prospect of living a normal life. “Wow. Let’s see.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the backs of the front seats between his parents. “Seattle would be good. All my friends are there. And I loved Montana.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “But then again ...” He looked at Jenny. “How about Madison, so we can be with everyone?”

Jenny and Paul looked at each other, then nodded. “Okay,” she said.

The rest of the trip was quiet, with each family member wondering about the overwhelming changes that were in store. Their restless lives had known only the endless flow of pursuit and escape for so long that the abnormal was now normal to them. The possibility of living in peace and quiet, in one place, just like everyone else, was daunting to each of them. They would need time to adjust.

The car radio in the little station wagon didn’t work, so Scott was given the job of checking the news in his radio. But he was lost in his thoughts, and eventually he forgot. No one thought to remind him.

They arrived at the Haydens’ house about 11 p.m. The front light was on, and there was a single light on in the living room. The front door was unlocked and Scott led the way as the three entered the house. But Scott stopped dead in his tracks as he entered the front hall. In the living room he could see Mary, her eyes fixed on the television, the screen’s shifting blue glow reflecting eerily on her tear—stained cheeks. Paul and Jenny were taken aback when they saw the sight, and Scott stepped towards her with worry. “Grandma, what’s the matter?”

She blinked and looked up at them with surprise. “Oh, you’re here.” She got up and met them in the front hall with a lack of concern inconsistent with how she looked. “Everything went okay?” she asked Paul.

“Yes, I think so.”

She nodded. “We watched all the news programs we could and didn’t see anything.”

Her calm demeanor was in stark contrast to the intensity that they had seen on her face when she was watching the television, and Scott asked her with concern, “What’s the matter?”

She didn’t understand for a moment, then smiled and wiped her cheek apologetically. “It has nothing to do with you.” She smiled at Scott and Jenny, then looked at Paul. “You won’t understand this so much, but these two will.” She led the family to the living room, where the television showed what looked like a rambunctious nighttime block party in progress. “Have you been listening to the news?”

“Well, sort of,” Scott said.

Mary smiled knowingly. “You’ve had other things on your mind. You probably haven’t been paying attention to this.” She indicated the image on the screen. “Do you recognize that?”

The three looked at the picture. It was a gathering of people near some sort of graffiti-covered concrete structure. A hundred or so people were standing on the structure, while hundreds of others were congregated next to it, and they were all having an infectiously wonderful time. The scene didn’t look familiar to Scott or Jenny. Scott noticed that the VCR was recording the event, but it still didn’t mean anything to him. “What is it?” he asked.

Mary smiled, and her eyes began to fill with tears again as she looked at the screen. “It’s something I never thought I’d see in my lifetime. That’s the Berlin Wall.” Her emotions overtook her, and tears tripped down her cheeks as Scott and Jenny looked at the television in shock.

“What?” Scott said. “I thought people got shot for climbing over that thing.”

Mary beamed at him, her tears glistening with the television’s cool glow. “Yesterday they would have, but today they’re not.”

Scott and Jenny couldn’t believe their eyes as they watched the revelry. After going through their own consuming crisis, this image was all the more jarring. Paul watched with them, not understanding the cause for the celebration but understanding the powerful, jubilant emotions involved.

Mary’s eyes suddenly flashed as she scrutinized Paul. “You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”

Paul blinked. “No.”

She nodded. “Good. It’s nice to know we can still do a few things right by ourselves.”

“I don’t get it,” Scott said. “What’s going on?”

Mary smiled at her grandson. “It’s a long story, and I’ll explain all of it tomorrow. But what it means, sweetheart, is that the world is turning upside down, and that what man in his infinite stupidity has split apart can now be made whole again.”

Scott glanced at the screen, and then smiled at her. He said quietly, “It sounds like us.”

This drew more tears from Mary, and she hugged him with delight. She kissed him on the cheek and beamed. “And I still love it when you call me Grandma.” She looked at the three wearily. “I’ve had a day. I’m going to bed. There are clean sheets in Ellen’s old room,” she said to Paul and Jenny, “and Scott’s room,” she said to Scott. “There’s plenty of food in the kitchen, help yourselves. Please stay up as long as you want, but if you watch TV please leave the VCR going until it runs out of tape. You know how to watch TV without the VCR?” she asked Scott. He nodded, and she smiled. “You’re a smart kid, Scott. You obviously get it from me,” she said with a wink. “See you at breakfast.” She went upstairs, and only after she was gone did Scott think to ask her if Melany was still staying with them.

The three sat down to watch the news, but the only story the National News Network was covering was _the_ story of the unexpected opening up of East Germany. Paul realized this was what Liz Baynes Jeffers had been called away to watch on TV after the press conference. Paul looked at the party in progress on the television screen. “So this is important.”

Jenny shook her head. “It’s unbelievable.”

“Dad,” Scott said succinctly, “the only thing that could be bigger than this is if you’d screwed up live on international TV.”

Quiet footfalls came down the stairs, and the three looked up and saw a sleepy Melany tying the belt on her bathrobe. “Hi,” she said to Scott as he stood up quickly, “I thought I heard your voice.”

“Hi.” He stared at her for a moment, once again struck by how beautiful she was. Paul and Jenny stood to greet her. “Oh, um, Melany Parsons, this is my mom, Jenny Hayden, and my dad, Paul Forrester.”

Melany nodded to Jenny with a quiet “Hi,” but she blinked awake when it sunk in who Paul was. She eyed him for a moment, then asked Scott, “He’s your _dad_ dad?”

Scott nodded, trying to hide a smile. “Yup. He’s my dad dad.”

Paul smiled solicitously. “It’s nice to meet you, Melany.”

She was gazing at Paul guardedly, and Scott thought a timely distraction was in order. “Are you still living here?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’m staying with the Pierces. But tomorrow’s an in-service day at school, and Mrs. Hayden thought I’d like to be here in case you showed up.” She smiled shyly at him, and he beamed at how wonderful his life had suddenly become.

Jenny saw what was happening and tugged on Paul’s sleeve. She said to Melany, “Please excuse us, we’re really tired. We’re going to bed.”

Paul wasn’t tired at all, and he looked at Jenny curiously. Something in her eyes got across the message to leave the two of them alone. “Oh, yes,” he said to the teenagers, “very tired. Good night.”

Melany and Scott weren’t in the least bit fooled, but they appreciated the gesture. Before Paul and Jenny headed up the stairs, Jenny said to Scott, “Don’t stay up too late.”

He nodded with gratitude. “Thanks, Mom.”

The teenagers settled down in front of the television. After making sure the VCR was still recording the news program, Scott switched through the channels on the TV and found a good movie starting on the late show. But between talking and getting reacquainted, the two didn’t see all that much of the movie.

******

Breakfast came before dawn in the Hayden house Friday morning. Paul, Jenny, and Scott were up as soon as they heard the morning paper being put in the mailbox. They each took a section and scoured the papers at the dining room table. Mary came down and found them. She smiled at the sight and went into the kitchen to start pancakes. A sleepy Melany joined them and sat at the table. Scott handed her a section of the paper. She saw the others were searching the pages, and she looked at her section with half-open eyes. “What am I looking for?”

“Anything with his face on it,” Scott said, indicating Paul. She nodded and started through the paper.

The story all over the front section of the newspaper was the new order springing to life in Europe, but this was only of passing interest to the family.

With some digging, Paul found what they were looking for. After all their apprehension, it wasn’t much. The entire reference was a stand-alone photo of Paul pointing at his “Only Visiting This Planet” button accompanied by a long cutline. “BEAM ME UP: Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer Paul Forrester strikes a characteristically irreverent pose during a press conference prompted by tabloid newspaper articles claiming that he was the subject of the best-selling book, _Conversations with a Starman_. When asked if he was an alien from outer space, Forrester replied that it depended on whether there was more money in suing the tabloids for claiming that he was ‘or proving them right.’“

Jenny and Scott hadn’t known all the details of the press conference, especially about the button Liz had given Paul, and it took them a moment to settle down after seeing the photo. But when Mary came out with the pancakes and saw the photo, she laughed heartily and patted Paul on the back.

Scott was casually going through the rest of the paper when something caught his eye, and he laughed abruptly. He showed his parents the article, which bore the headline, “Feds Claim Arrested Computer Whiz is Renowned Super Hacker.” The story went on to detail the arrest the day before by the FSA of someone named Lamont DeGrieve, whom the federal agency claimed was the long-sought—after super hacker known only by the code name “Deep Poke.” Scott laughed, “Dad, look who’s credited with nailing him. It’s Wylie!” Sure enough, identified as the agent who got the investigation’s “big break” was Ben Wylie, now of the FSA’s internal security division. They toasted Wylie’s success with their orange juice.

The morning news programs didn’t mention the Starman story, and Paul wasn’t surprised when Liz called about 8:30 and said the press conference had gotten virtually no play in the local media. “There was something in one of the papers, but just a two-graph filler. There was a nice picture of you, though. Louis said there was something mentioned on a local TV news segment last night, but it was just a passing reference and it was treated like a funny little piece.”

“That’s good,” Paul said, wondering if this finally meant it was over.

“Hey, Paul,” she said with a laugh, “I hate to tell you, but you just don’t match up to the Berlin Wall coming down. We’ll see how the weekly news magazines write this up, but it looks good. I called around to a few friends to see what they’d written, pretending I was still putting together that ‘This is Your Life’ thing, but most said they hadn’t even bothered to write something up. I guess this whole business has turned into what we call a ‘non-story.’“

******

The last loose ends tied up gradually. Melany went back to Rockland Sunday evening, but as the town was only 50 miles away, weekend visits were assured. Scott himself started school in Madison on Monday. Armed with transcripts saved from Vacaville and others mailed from Macklen by the Sullivans, Scott took the school’s equivalency exams and he was shocked to find himself a second-semester junior at the school where a year earlier he had suffered through the humiliation of being a lowly freshman. Being enrolled at the same school under a different name turned out not to be a problem. The sympathetic registration staff knew all about his trials and tribulations (one clerk even secretly slipped him a copy of the National Weekly News for an autograph), and Scott found himself something of a celebrity among the faculty and his classmates. Sir Scott of Bowman finally had a moment of glory that he could live with.

As the serious weekly news magazines came out over the course of the week, a few mentioned the story in passing, saying only that the Starman saga was continuing as Paul denied allegations that he was connected with the book. Several of the magazines didn’t even bother with the story. The lighter weekly magazines ran short pieces, one speculating if Paul was “the ultimate space cadet.”

The family dared to talk about the future now. Thanks to Mark Shermin, the family had enough money to buy a house outright, but as Mary and Hank were happy to have them stay as long as they wanted, they decided to wait until things were more settled.

Abigail called on Thursday. “Good news,” she told Paul. “Absolutely no one has called our offices to follow up on the press conference. Plus, I’ve been contacted by lawyers from both the National Weekly News and the Midnight Press. The Press is taking a very defensive attitude about the whole thing, but I think they’ll come across for us. On the other hand, the News is desperate to settle out of court. I think we can soak ‘em good.”

“I don’t understand what ‘settle out of court’ means,” Paul said.

“It means they pay you a lot of money so you don’t sue them.”

Paul was surprised by this. “How much is a lot of money?”

Abigail laughed. “Judging by how much the News lawyer was sweating, you may not have to work for quite a while.” Abigail promised to fight for every nickel and to call him as soon as they were ready to sign on the dotted line. Paul thought she still sounded rather tightly wound, but perhaps a little less than before.

******

Paul and Jenny were married in small, private ceremony in the Haydens’ back yard on Saturday, which was a warm day for the middle of November. Attending was the immediate members of the Hayden clan—Mary and Hank, the Kuehns, and the Fitzmichaels—Wayne and Phyllis Geffner, who flew in from Albuquerque, Liz and Louis Jeffers, Melany Parsons, Irmtraud Keitzer, and Evan and Stephanie Pierce. Conducting the ceremony was a friend of Hank and Mary’s, who had known the elder Scott and Jenny as a couple and was well acquainted with the trauma the family had gone through after Scott’s death. His talk centered on coming together, and new beginnings, and that true families are built “not on a foundation of blood, but on love.” The reception was chased indoors by a passing shower, but no one cared. After all, Paul explained brightly, it was a sign of good luck.

After everyone had gone home and Mary and Hank had retired early, Scott, Jenny and Paul lounged in the living room. It was a peaceful moment together, and it was all the more delicious because it was so “normal.” As they appreciated the serenity, Scott asked his father, “So, now what?”

Paul answered simply, “Now we live.”

“Are you going to find a job right away? I don’t remember you two saying anything about a honeymoon or something like that.”

Jenny and Paul smiled at each other. They hadn’t mentioned yet to Scott the assignment Paul had accepted. He said, “Well, we are going on a honeymoon.”

“A working one,” Jenny clarified.

“Liz and I are doing a story together,” Paul said, “and Jenny and Louis are going along.”

“Where are you going?” Scott asked.

Paul and Jenny exchanged a glance. “Fiji,” he said.

Scott caught his breath. “Fiji!?” He couldn’t believe it. “Wow! When are we leaving?”

Paul answered obliquely, “I don’t think children go on their parents’ honeymoon.”

“I’m a special case,” Scott said quickly. Paul didn’t react, and Jenny smiled as she watched the two sides squaring off. “Dad,” Scott said firmly, “you can’t go without me. I mean, you just can’t. I mean, Fiji. Come on.” Paul still wasn’t reacting, and Scott was becoming more insistent. “Dad, I’ve always gone with you. You can’t do this to me. Not now.”

“Sure I can,” Paul said evenly.

Scott could see he was losing, so in desperation he tried another approach. “Mom, come on. Now that you’ve found me, you’re not going to just dump me, are you?”

She kept a straight face. “You can pick us up at the airport when we get back.”

Paul said, “Scott, your mother and I have a lot to talk about.” They exchanged another private, knowing glance. “Like how many more children we’re going to have.”

Scott stared at them. “What?” he said flatly.

“I think twins would be fun,” Paul said to Jenny, and she shrugged noncommittally.

Scott wanted to believe they were joking, but there was a disturbing undercurrent of verity in this conversation. “You’re kidding, right?”

Paul looked at his son with a playful spark in his eyes. “Is ‘kidding’ another way of saying ‘having kids’?”

The nightmare wasn’t going away, and Scott put his foot down. “No. You can’t do this. I’m too old to have a little brother or sister.”

Paul looked at Jenny, then said to Scott, “We thought one of each would be good.”

Scott knew he couldn’t win, and he began to slip into a funk. He couldn’t imagine having little kids running around. He would be 18 years older than they were—at least. He’d be more like an uncle. His parents wouldn’t have any time for him, they’d spend all their time with the kids. God, he’d have to babysit. Three o’clock feedings, the house always smelling like dirty diapers, toys underfoot. The prospect of it became more miserable with every passing moment. If this was normal life, he would take life on the run again, thank you.

“Scott,” Paul said gently, “they’ll be like you.” The cloud of gloom over Scott began to melt as he looked at his father. Paul said, “You can teach them.”

Scott thought about that for a moment, and everything began to change. All the traumas of his childhood, all the mistakes the Lockharts made with him in their ignorance, all of his doubts, all of his confusion—everything would have a point now. He could keep them from going through that. He could help them not to make the same mistakes he had. He felt strangely light all of a sudden. It was as if an unresolved part of his life had just come into focus. He looked at his father, quiet and circumspect. “But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Paul smiled at his son quietly. “Yes, you do.”

Scott mused on that a moment, then smiled slyly at his father. “Well, twins are a bad idea. Avoid them if you can. Mrs. Kilpatrick—Tim’s mom—had twins. They take over. You can’t stop them.”

The family laughed together.

******

Paul and Jenny went house-hunting the next weekend. Their first stop was only three blocks from the Haydens’. The house was on nearly an acre of wooded land next to the lake, and the five-bedroom house was spacious and airy without being drafty and had plenty of room for an art studio for Jenny and a darkroom for Paul if he wanted one.

Scott and Melany had tagged along for the trip, and as the real estate agent was showing Paul and Jenny the master bedroom suite that overlooked the lake, the teenagers wandered away and explored. The next three bedrooms were homey and comfortable, but the room at the end of the hall beckoned to Scott. He opened the door and stepped into the bed-room of his dreams. Solid banks of windows were the west and north walls of the room. Trees blocked the view of the neighboring houses, so all he could see was trees, the lake, and the hills of Waunakee two miles away across the water. At night the Milky Way would stretch overhead, and in the summer all the open windows would bring the room alive. He quickly sized up the room. He could put his bed here, and a dresser here, and a desk over there, and maybe someday a stereo over there ...

Melany smiled when she saw the energy in his face. “So does this mean now you have a home?”

Scott realized the implication of her statement just as his parents and the real estate agent came into the room. “Well, Scott,” Paul said with a smile, “what do you think?”

He looked at his parents eagerly. “I love it.”

Their smiles back to him said they agreed. Paul nodded to Jenny, and she laughed with delight to the real estate agent, “Where do we sign?”

The agent shook Jenny’s hand with enthusiasm. “Great! We’ll draw up the papers now and get the loan request process started first thing in the morning.”

“I can write a check,” Paul said, pulling out the checkbook of the account he and Jenny had opened the week before.

“That’s fine,” the agent said. “We’ll need a deposit now and then a down payment when the loan is approved.”

“No,” Paul explained helpfully, “for the whole thing.” A silence hung in the room as the teenagers reacted with surprise and the real estate agent’s eyes glazed over. Paul wasn’t sure what he had done. “Is that okay?”

The agent needed a moment to catch her breath. “Yes,” she said with unsteady delight, “that’s wonderful.”

Half an hour later, the papers were signed, the check was written, and it was all simply a matter of the paperwork going through. The family had a home.

******

A belated wedding present arrived three days before Paul and Jenny left for Fiji. Paul, Scott and Jenny had not yet moved into their new home when a man who wasn’t dressed at all like a delivery person carried a large box up to the Haydens’ house from a distinctly nondescript sedan. Their old, wary instincts kicked in, and they were sorry Mary and Hank weren’t home to be a blind. As Paul and Scott stayed just out of sight, Jenny answered the knock on the door hesitantly. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for a Paul Forrester,” the man said in official tones.

“I’m Mrs. Forrester.”

He set the box down and held out a clipboard to her. “Would you sign there, please?” he said, indicating a spot on an impressive form.

“What is this?”

“Return of personal property.”

Jenny glanced over the form. It looked authentic enough, and it did seem to be a form authorizing the return of personal property. She saw the project numbers at the top—617W and 617W-A—but they meant nothing to her. She looked at the man, then glanced around to see if there were men in suits skulking in the bushes. The man was waiting patiently, the image of the aloof, disinterested federal professional. With a last look at the man, she signed the form and handed him the clipboard. He took off the top copy and gave it to her. “Have a good day,” he said and left with no further ado.

After the nondescript sedan had left, Paul and Scott brought the box into the house. They set it on the living room floor and opened it. At first, the three peered into the box curiously, not quite putting everything together. The top layer of items meant nothing to them. Jenny reached in and pulled out a canister of 16mm film and looked at the label. “My God,” she said with disbelief, “it’s some of our old home movies.” She looked into the box. “It’s all the stuff they kept.”

Paul and Scott dug through to another layer, then they laughed as they emptied the box, pulling out everything of theirs that had ever been confiscated by the FSA. There were two complete sets of camera equipment—the first lost a year ago when George and the local FSA agents had searched this very house, the second set forfeited in Omaha after Paul had nearly been killed by the Farmers Chemicals Cooperative employees. There were bags of clothes, some of Scott’s school notebooks, and they even found the antique spyglass and key chain Paul and Scott had exchanged for Christmas in Ironwood.

They all laughed at the unforeseen bounty, and Jenny looked at the form she still had in her hand to make sure this was what it seemed to be. Yes, this was simply a matter of personal property being returned after the completion of an investigation.

But there was one last gift to be shared. Jenny smiled as she saw it on the form, and she showed it to her husband and her son. The line on the form for the authorization to make the return was filled with a brusque but legible signature: “George Fox, agent in charge.” Under his signature the form was dated three days earlier.

The three looked at each other and understood what this meant. It was finally over.

 

Finis


End file.
